It’s
more a miracle, to frequent words, such as love. It’s night, Love…as heartless
as love…as warm as love. Oh the paradox, to see for spinning, a grin through
winds; and god cried, to pay attention, to know for wells. I see you, forever a
vision, and mother cries. We see it not, where pain creeps in, to know for
reasons. I’m more a title, to flood a soul, to dig for rubies; and
nevertheless, to use Descartes, the skies are precious—as precious as swans;
and plus for discontent, to unvisit hell, the mind of grandpa. I love for dreams, and pastrami visits,
and chili fries. I wish to write more, but less is more, where pain is
sleeping; so speak the brooks, and shadow grandmas, to learn of life; for this
is grand, a walking Bible, even a Sutra.
I feel you living, to volt a flame, a tad bit worried; but this is life,
to mold perfection—a bit detached; else for grief and sullen hells and the talk
of depression. What for life; a young
swan, to grow gray, asearch for black and white! The sun gave way, and soon returned—so
watch the weather!
This
is love; to passion this heart, to flood the village; and god knew, to feel for
growth, a cactus filled with water.
We drill for oil, to try for often, to strike for oil; so ever to drill,
searching through deserts, filled with lagoons. We love for fevers, to sketch a graph, to
promote ideas; and cars are seasons, where love is auctioned, but not for
souls; in which are gems, and beige diamonds, to see self through jewels. The days are gravel, the earth is water,
and we mix for pleasures; for this is math, a grand equation, to know for
slanted; and never this love, and ever this love, to breathe our air. Please forgive—the depth of troubles, to blend
with wisdom, as pure as an unborn angel.
