Remember
the first touch; and oh so sick, to play for parts. I couldn’t laugh, and must
to laugh, to hear a voice. We chatted a portrait, to dream forever, as cold as
icicles. I’m now for love, twenty years late, to crawl a maze; and must to
shift, as warm as doctors, as stern as surgeons.
I
couldn’t find you, to sort the years, a private practice; and cells screamed. I
wrote in haste, filled for anger, to mention indiscretion. [But what for touch,
to see for yelps, a rootless love].
What
is real, aside for hells, to comfort the pressure? Maybe so; a cryptic world,
where love is disrespect; and maybe so, a mystic bond, where love paints
illusions; for this is rain, a restless zeal, to feel for deeper; where shallow
is scared, and love is hidden, to pardon the friction.
Forgive
the waves; but never for us; where death took precedence—to love for seashores;
and art flourished, to feel for pain, as if alone; but never this choice, and
ever this choice, a silent voice.
I
see you my stars; scarred and deaf—for love is brilliant—a torn concept—where
torn is love and love is torn; and God knows; we’re living to churn, and feel
for life—a moment in a vase.
