It’s
more than love, and less than love, a grand paradox. We sit afar, staring in
vain, as vague as angst. Wherefrom this light, to perish and love, as grand as
paradox? It’s more a paragon, to love for words, to feel it and bleed. You know
for life, as wise as Socrates, as cold as Aristotle. I watch, sitting still, a
bit aloof; for love is mixed, a caption screaming, “Never.” It’s more for true,
to know it was, a boring friendship; but what for words, to capture for
moments, a life hidden. It would for joy, to know for chance, to morph a
legacy. I saw for life, a testy union, the breadth of wisdom. Feel it to fall,
to gather but nothing, to speak for clearer. The love is gifts, for both the
souls, to kindle a mystery. I’m found for words, to reach for hearts, to utter
humanity. The lines are crooked, to beg for straight, a past for haunting. Its
tears and joy, to pace a room, to break for free; and then again, the cycle
burns, to return a scar. I like her for this, to hope she’s free, a bit for stern.
Its blank a night, to chisel a storm, to remember friends; and mystic the art,
to travel and sitting. There’s more for thoughts, a screen on blank, where
words form a fortress. I hear—Love, to structure life, a bit for gray. We
perish often, to give for spins, to reason for love. I can’t but spin, to see
it often, a word with meaning. Something must give, for life to bloom, and
sipping grapes. I see for riddles, a person breathing, to live for perfect; but
life is passion, to die a legacy; for birth is love, to greet a friend, to
mission this life. I clap for palms, reading for psalms, as torn as Iraq; and
we know for love, to spread for thin, to purchase a scar; and life is dying, to
picture growth, to raise a legacy. Is it there; a want for more, a mind to
embrace? I ask—and not for con, but to pull for forces; for something is
cringing, a mortal self, where spirit is tugging; and this is us, a lot of
blossoms, to live but a season.
