Forever,
my love; this frying vibration, to awaken a soul’s breath. It’s ever this love,
as wild as back-flips, to leap without a net. Its zenic this art, to
communicate afar, to become purple. We pardon grays, engraved in woodblocks, as
vetted as memoirs. We broke the margins, a home upon gravel, but still a
whirlpool. I often trespass, the
fleece of genius, swollen with pressure—the particles of pain; for a concert of
rages, the faces of phantoms, to see you explaining. We chant a verse, as not
for us, to usher a tsunami; but rather a chant, as single souls, the heart’s
concert. I love you rested, to conquer trials, a rising myth; and more to love,
for tremors felt, a dream for a woman.
Forever,
my love; this frying vibration, to awaken a soul’s breath. I reckon a mare, to
wrestle tares, as fevered as flares. Oh the founts, a subtle gash, to vibrate a
nib; and oh the drums, a favored love, to see you explaining. We’re born to
thorns, a son of suns, the prose a velvet rose; and god stood, to forests
fanes, a passage for a Pharaoh. I love of yore, for multiple lives, a banshee
in an attic; and swivet the love, a swallowed sky, to ski sacred stars; and how
to function, in such for presence, as sudden as, “good-morning”; for love is
moments, for joyous sadness, to capture this nuance; where god beheld, a
treasured friend, a hymn through a pearl.
