They
long the verbal, spent in private rooms, lost in dialogue. The heavens are
waves,
to flutter a heart, fully for absence. We love in blankness, in which
aware,
to vibrate a name. Our words are lightning, a clad to muse, to figure for
currency.
We brush the paint, to stress an ideal, as fervent as Zen; in which an
inner
eye, to blink a shadow, to hear for whispers. I love her like never, a
mind’s
caress, a chest of fireworks. Oh this love, bent towards hells, as friendly
as
meditation; whereat the lux of life, to channel for souls, a pulse for racing.
We
climb alone, a cabinet heart, sipping a volcano. I rise the calling, to panic
reception,
four miles closer; and forty the days, a man for tested, to utter for
Scripture.
Oh this mind, to manicure thoughts, to polish wisdom. We love like
strangers,
a dark intuition, to petition clouds. The past is crooked, to long for
culture,
a bit for monster; in which it fell, the bells of love, to see for grace; for
classes
swarmed, to finish for school, to know forks and spoons. We love it
boldly,
as cold as cubes, to feel it warmly; whereat is beauty, to churn
recruitment,
pulling for tugging this night. We flame like sulfur, alone a room,
to
rush a heart-cave; whereby is life, a bit for wishful, a bit for sensitive; for
this
is us, to trust a mirror, to float a bit nervous. See us—for closing doors,
to
leap a volt; wherefore is secret, a subtle craft, to stumble success. I laugh,
to passion this love,
to give it to a daughter.
