Upon
a petal, Love; for this is life: to read a leaf, and stare at veins, to die a
leaf. I speak of love, a bit weary of love, to feel you growing. The nights are
young, the days are young, the pace is young! One should smile, where years
compliment beauty, and love is fawning; but learn to envision, to see a castle,
drawn on psychic membranes; and see for mother, even a sunflower, fending for a
future; where love is painted, and tiles are diamonds and precious stones. We
learn to live—and offend for nothing—and givin’ forgiveness; but life is
different: a wealth of hurt, a reservoir of pain, christened with joys: the
youth of your eyes; the arms of your powers; and the deepest concentration. We
often vanish—and play pretend, knee high in quarrels; for love is religious,
filled with precepts, and a bit vexed; but know for glory, and know for prayer,
and seek communion—the greatest gifts.
Something smiled your name: I turned to see, and a mirror spoke. We
danced a tune, to live a tone, to know for treasures. I hope for growth, and private nuances, to
feel for Spirit; and what of chi, the very difference, where the two soar the
cities? I called a dream, and felt
for damned, to dress a portrait. It’s shaded blackness, and trickles of sorrow,
to break forth in joys; where right is a product of left, and down is the
realization of up. There’s a gift,
buried in a swan, to see it as pantomime.
So shovel deeply, for turquoise eyes, as brilliant as brown gems; where
life is drifting, to harness mystery, to love a sister; and give her gold, even
chants, and laugh and play and cry and live! [for] this is life; and love is
turns, to master the edges; and true to heart, is every word, to see you
sailing in love.
