Something
grumbles, to fly through music,
to
suit for sadness. We
pause
a feeling, a heart afire, a Polaroid
to
a soul. There’s a swan’s
song,
a silent gift, to flourish come ink.
We
vet a priest, to feature
monsters,
torn for exile. It’s born for
tension,
a woman’s birth, adorned
in
urns.
We
move as such, a fleet of
cults,
the extent a human church.
He
swore jeans, and cried a flute, even a
violin.
She died his nature, as
aloof
as felines, as cuddly as kittens. He
pulled
for tugging, where
jaguars
court, and cougars flex; and there’s
a
mountain, buried for seas,
to
dive a soul.
She’s
skiing sulfur, and
spewing
ice, to balance turmoil.
They
love like lions, a season come joy,
to
perish a heart-cave.
She’s
the haunt of wings, to kill come
seasons,
akin to metaphor. She
sparked
a rose, to wrap for petals,
dreaming
through landscapes. The
words
were green, for jasper prose, and
jasmine
tears. Something lived,
a
chi filled drum, to squirm come winter;
and
fireflies sang, a midnight
death,
addicted to light. What for stars,
and
local graves, a felt sickness?
