The
fasts way there; to a coup of dreams; or a vase-like contour. We outwitted time, to sickle pains, to
teapot fruition. Our roof—the closeness of crimes, to speculate truths. Our
love—as reckless as addiction, to forfeit autonomy. We manicured lies, with such success, to
ignore the seeds. Your body—an island
of rubies, a nightmare made perfect; for perfect pain, and perfect death, to
die for loss; and every tactic, a silent dialogue, as desperate as
passion. We shattered midnight, to
claim for daylight, twisted in a pretzel.
I love you, as sturdy as oak, a pocket full of reasons. We died the controversy: screaming and
lying, biting and kicking. Oh for the
fever; to perish your heartbeat; to live a fiction novel; and non-fiction this
life, as paranoid as acid, as loaded as Affair. Such invasion; an inward explosion;
the doctrine of passion. We clashed
at sight, to argue for wits, to trickle a poem on a leaflet. We loved through tears, a bit unreal,
digging into our fibers. How for
destiny; to forsake logic, to burn with desire! Every stimulus, a rumor for
souls, a rescue mission; and every invasion, to pull for closer, as radiant as
sulfur; in which was love, the sprinkles of hell, the sins of Israel; whereat
was life, a fever of passions, to stream through tensions. We laughed in silence, a bit oblivious,
the neb of a sword; to pierce come wounds, and wounded came fairness, to cry
into a vest-cave. I know not for
more, a person there cringing, and pleading a lost beginning. Oh for padlocks, to charm for keys, to
dine with repertoire; and to see it faceless, feeding for dreams, to repeat a
cycle. We loved it more, a found Jerusalem, the hieroglyphs of Egypt; in which
was chaotic-peace, a sight unseemly, where a voice was raised; and hell took
refuge, for so many closets, to feel for guilty.
