We
chat for discreet; and miles apart—to channel an inner phone. I’m quite for
taken: to feel for nuance, an inward tunneling; where winds blow, and wolves
whisper, and ever with nuance. We thought for low, and felt for five, to
struggle for seven; and oh the winds, to christen a soul, to boomerang
depression. Its craft and mystery, gods and goddesses, and vessels of wildfire.
I know not a name, and more for names, to study for cause and effect. I’m more
awake, to receive for gifts, as tangible as inner rollercoasters. The pigeons
are silent, to listen to songbirds, sitting for sailing. I know more the music,
a vine made of iron, a swan made of flesh; and dance is but a dream, a mixture
of tensions, to look and dance regardless; for life is tiptoeing, and dreams
are morphing, from dirt to life and then for more. I heard a vision, to nibble
a loquat, ten miles further afar; and spirits heard, to shift a frequency, to
know for a troubled sea. The ships are swaying, from gray to beige, where
teachers nod and psychs scribble. I’m three miles closer, to land upon seven,
to read the forecast; and life is hectic, to know for terms, to dream of
evenness; for this is art, and even magic, a mystic yogi; where stars are near,
to tug and touch, a tad bit terrified; but more to fields, shifting deeper, a
castle in a psyche; and more the Twilight,
if ever a dream, reaching for a nightmare. I’m soon to drift, to feel for
visits, a mnemonic sketch; in which are cries, for screaming justice, to
journey inwardly; and something gave, to give for more, afraid to receive; for
this is love, and somewhat anonymous, to chant it discreetly. I saw for words,
to shift and change, floating upon a graph; where chains shattered, silence
spoke, and dreams fevered.
