We’re
ever stillness, for life to muster, for transported mystics. I come to you, ever alive, to feel a
chameleon.
We perish chants, to return a lily,
airborne a gap. I die perfume, to
waft freely, to crochet freedom.
You churn an ache, a subtle need, but
overlooked. It’s evermore, the plague
of minds, to nurture sharks.
I fathom little, somewhat an alligator,
peering through crystals. But I do
apologize, for every infraction, where the simple perishes.
Its come what may, featured in mirrors, at
5a.m.; and less for terror, our thrumming souls, strumming terror.
I awoke pain, where all were included, through
opaque captions. How to efface gray,
where you live the queen, to hunger for a world?
An attic—is a metaphor, where Ferraris
race; and love is royal, to yearn the mundane, adept at classism.
I say little—to charm—the chameleon; but
ever more, to strike a thought, musing in forbidden lands.
It’s to know for good, a slave to a
concept, to guide through chaos; and there you sit, a bit disgruntle, mourning
a mystic.
This is self, the mystic in you, as
present as mind-waves. How for
strangers, inward alike, but a breath apart?
I do but fall, to rise through a sylvan,
shrouded ascetically.
