It’s
sheer energy, a mixture of dispositions, an actress of a woman; but more for
lure, as opposed to guile, to cast a net for tugging. We’re flawed and
flawless, to hewn a craft, as alive as reciprocation. We pant and pace and play
and plough, ever for love. Such portfolios; a mixture of channels, where one
loves fervently, and one walks away. Its papers and pens and passions—to jot
for prose, enlove with ideals; and more a gesture, to guide a gaze, and gauge a
gentle game; where love is kilns, plus, strategic distance, to carve a cautious
craving. There’s brighter lights—plus, sophistication, a sly seductress; and
still the motions, for subtle slights, seasoned with sensations; and thitherto,
a board of chess, where yes is maybe and no is probing. We manicure madness, to
scratch for minds, as mixed as mental museums; where tiles are mosaic, and love
is masterpiece, and hearts are murals.
I love to see her, striking a pose,
sporting a sexy suit. The heart becomes mobile, to telephone frequencies,
standing there in vibrations. We long for myths, a modeled design—to measure
the purest game; and what for us, to see such style, and crave exclusivity.
Shall we make it; a private perspective, to exercise prowess? I wonder of such
craft, willing a wretched soul, as close to pain as eyelashes; in which is knowledge,
a sullen wisdom, to read the daily events; for this is love, a tub of oils, and
three petals.
