We
churn for love, alert and confused, eschewing love; for love is grit, a pair
of
sandals, he couldn’t lace. We measure love, to falter love, and pleading
for
love; but some are love, to grip a river, and splash for love. He couldn’t
for
touch, an aching groan, both death and bone; and there for distance, to
shiver
the
woulds, a bit explosive; in which a heart, a thousand miles, trekking by
gravel;
to bleach the shoulds, and shape the woods, a sylvan of a soul. They
loved
in panic, a frantic lot, to blot the pressures; whereat was kef, a bold
addiction,
and dying through friction. He loved come rain, to morph as ice,
cracking
window shields. The earth is passion, laughing at folly, to mourn
in
silence; and God for good, to soothe a blizzard, for a fiberglass soul; for
life
is death, the dying to live, an old paradox; and thus the light, where shun
a
cross, to redeem passion. The tides trickle love, and hold for seas, expressed
through
wildness; and there for heart, a womanly spark, the lark of rivers.
They
loved in Graceland, and bathed in mud, loving for they died; in which a
soul,
a sinful soul, opted for hells; and less for love, and more for child, a phone
to
disconnect;
and now for swords, a family torn, born to another. He could but
laugh, a fraction of
self, staring at love.
