It’s
a quilt of this love, to fall emotions, a woodblock life; and this is portals,
to shatter inhibitions, to utter—“I need you”; for cut for scars, an invisible
wound, captured in countenances; and oh the visual, for subtle vision, to reach
forth a hand; in which is love, a non-stop video, to vanish blossoms; where
hope is textile arts, and marble angst, a template for love.
We passion through abstracts, to fish for
concretes, to die through climaxes. How to critique, a veiled gesture, a craft
for geniuses? We perish a thought, to
walk a tear, to bounce the contrast; where life is color, and wheels of
frustration, an inward collage.
There’s less to crave, to opt for love, as naïve as rabbits; where caves
are speaking, and knees are weak, and mothers warn; in which is growth, and
armoire dreams, to scribble calligraphy; for bridges are brushing, to paint a
fortress, a mind of artworks.
We’re animated, a subtle hue, a vocal
silence; and high for nights, to live graffiti, to glaze a glass; for deep the
scribe, a gallery of gust, to cuss for dreams; for this is love, a gliding
gown, a gentle gesture; and god flared, a fever of fights, wrapped in hormones;
for friction dwelled—the depth of caves, filled with fresco drawings. We court exhibition, to exhibit love, to
feel embraced; and slightly vanished, to repeat the night, to enamel an orgasm;
where hush is love, and love is rush, to erase the tension.
How to depict it, a deadly design, to draw
an emotion; where hearts are bold, the oils of paint, an old art; and god
heard, the goddess call, a mural on a wave.
