Something
yelled, where hell shivered, from a holy shroud. He entered—to unchain,
a
vest of souls. This is life, courted through faith, to baptize a daughter. It happens,
forever
this way, a person through a person. We love you, big eyed and brimming,
guiding
a sister. We pace to utter, to shift for dice, as cultic as compounds. So knit
a
sweater, a treasured metaphor, a trope for love. The mountain spoke, a silent
language,
a message sublime. We love you, to sip for tea, a likeness of souls. So
reach
for ink, an arrow to paper, typing blueprints; for there’s a blanket, even a
bouquet,
of brilliant souls; whereat is chi, a magic carpet, for mystic math. It’s
deep
within, a shrine for temples, an unspoken wit; where many watch, willing for
wickedness,
as wretched as envy. We love you, a mental axe, the knife of wisdom;
in
which is rain, to sand a soul, the likeness of knowledge. So kiss a pencil, as
holy
as
vision, to guide a sibling. The oracle spoke, to spark a heart, a sudden
explosion;
for
love is value, a craft for souls, to crochet a future. So read the scales, to
balance
justice,
the lev of magic; in which a trope,
but not for spells, but more for talents;
whereat
is peace, to sew a mansion, with mental waves; for rites are lightning, to
create
within, to augment when needed; for coins are flipping, where sights are
sighted,
the
eyes of a swan. We love you, spinning for grinning, contained in magic: a gift
to
heal,
to mold a sister, to love a step-father. The rope was given, where souls
dangle,
to
peel a leaf. The roots the same, the parts are one, but something’s different.
It’s a
secret
veil, to mend the halves, to vision it whole. So what for separate, a mere
illusion,
a
padlock for chaos. Ours is riddles, a sleigh of psyches, a pair of Binoculars.
I
love a sudden beat, streaming a heart-cave, to fiddle with grass; and life is
green, a
trope
for hope, the tiles of love; where fibers grieve, to graph a future, to animate
force.
I
love you, a mixture of jewels, a studio of arts; in which is growth, a holy
garment,
a
museum of souls; for deep the life, a sudden impact, to chisel perfection; but
not to
live
it, indeed a tool, to picture authenticity; and more to justice, a lev for clear, to know
for
tov (good). I love you, a vehicle
grand, to ollie a mid-cave. Such is conflict, for a
torn
relief, and eye to eye. The mirror—for a world of weather, even a silhouette;
or
more
a gallery, a touchstone soul, a passage through love. I love you, deep in
studies, a
plate for portraits.
So partake—and write, and engineer.
