She
grips a dagger, to pierce for winds, to trickle blood. The nights are poison,
and
psychotic
tissues, to whisper his words; where days are hierarchy, for swollen pride,
and
pent up angst. She cultures crops, atop a psyche, to keep composure. If only symmetry,
to
muse for lines, as opposed to chaos; for mirrors melt, the fluid of liquor,
screaming
his
name. Its biomimicry, to solve for human, a reckless disease; where texture is
tears,
a
sight for desperate, to corner joys: the war's for art; the grid of words—to
fuel with
fever.
Clarity is crooked, a bias world, to frame positions; where love is color, to
fall
through
rivers, to kayak orgasms; but oh for sketches, to see for worlds, where words
are
slanted; whereat—to judge, a broken committee, a table for one thought. She
fevers
a
giant, a need for pressure, to chisel statements; in which—a diagram, paints a
vision,
cringing
through thoughts; for form is vivid, a pilates’ verb, to scribble a pentagram.
She
loves
for grays, to riddle a screen, to garner a promise. Its frozen skies, and
broken sickles,
piercing
a heart-cave. She disappears, a short retreat, a yogic temple; where peace is
breath,
and kef is calm, the death of lies. Walls are falling, where mirrors morph, to
frighten
eyes; whereat—a mind—shivers, to shift for focus, to lurch at self. The tiles
are
screaming,
serenity bends, and much a breakthrough. She tests soul, to beckon pain, an
ocean
of teary pressures. It’s more a mission, to hold for hearts, the hand of
silence; for
times
are blurry, and strangers are cruel, to refund affections.
