I
like her look, to friction a soul, as aesthetic as statues—as holy as mystery;
but
I’ve lost this journey, knee deep in trauma, screaming, “I forgive you.”
I
was super sick, with salient stripes, sullen through segues. I love you a vice,
far
from bankrupt, a walking memory. The stars turn sphinxly, to greet a
psych,
as cultic as heresy; and so for I, as cryptic as codes, to series for
symptoms.
I cry for you, hedged in sorrows, as high as low clouds. The war
is
self, to cater to hatred, filled with turmoil; and what to give: fraught and
heavy,
and dying softly. It’s more a feeling, to charge a venture, to lightheart
a
daughter. You wonder why; for death is plural, and quite existential. It
lingers
in caves, to grave a notion, where hell can follow. I want for more; a
young
lady, informed fully. Indeed I’ve learned, and pause I must, filled with
the
mystics; and more to watch, to feel for gems, alive an impulse. She
woke
the sleeping, to watch for growth, with little for maintenance; for this is
faith,
to chase an instinct, and more to let live.
I love a riddle, pulling for
tugging,
to extinguish darkness. It’s quite emphatic, to write a goddess, to
know
for never; and ever this glow, fully distraught, cleaving to reasons. The
moon’s
awake, to dwell for deep, a mirror’s reflection; in which for pain, to
dig
a dungeon, to free a soul; and lightning came, the rain of art, the richest
death; whereat is
life, plus Egyptian charms, to walk away.
