What
for love, this rose upon concrete, this lute of feelings? It’s inward caress,
to
nurture steams, to enter and pause.
The nights were flutes, to skip for waves,
abed
a blue moon. There’s grays an opus,
for caramel pride, to tat a name in
henna. The year’s courted love, to grow in
stations, prepared for love. Our
days,
to outsoar scars, giddy for rainbows.
We doted gray ribbons, the zest of
zeal,
as ripe as this love. We sculpted
love, but vexed for sore, to reap for
circuits. Love painted mansions, to whelm for souls,
the courage to love. Was
it
earth, a hidden science, as winsome as love?
I ask—to search for esoteric,
featured
in gravity. There’s a lagoon, filled
with emotions, to fret a fever. The
heart,
crocheted in essence, a series of drums; for love’s a koan, a subtle gesture,
filmed
in psyches. I now for drift, a locket
of souls, un-nailing carpet.
I
look upon visions, to stipple a face, to meet us come daylight; for stars are
printed,
a
rising grace, to wrestle for jazz. We mystic a fountain, to partake of dreams,
as
colorful
as a glance; where seldom this love, an antique rose, bedded in soul-prints;
for
almond eyes, for pearl barrettes, an unspoken motif. I feel it tugging, to surf
a
city,
gazing at strangers; whereat an angel, a mental mantra, a woman for madness;
for
there I was, as mad as drugs, vowing the unseen; where tears trickled, a lot
untold,
to voice a river.
