There’s
joys painted in sadness, a twofold nature, haunted within—where silence has
a
presence. There’s pain for rivers flowing into psyches an initial bliss. I kiss
for
winds,
to court for dreams, where anguish aches. How to voice silence grieving into
sky
wings? We speak a language camouflaged in imagination: a sudden thump, for
deep
radiance, where a world participates. There’s an inward lagoon, surrounded by
swans,
sprinting towards souls. We cry a wetless lake streaming into roaring flames.
We
patience this journey, floored to dust, semi-captured; where one enters, to
carve a
statue—at
center a brain. We listen to mirrors, skipping through lines, where a
surgeon
plants seeds. If only for good, as opposed to seesaws, a must to touch
feelings.
To
speak of all, a quasi-offense, where all is quite mandatory; for sullen the
soul, to
ski
existence, an existential condition; in which—a sun hides, to give for glints,
where
hours
follow sorrows; thus—a nightmare, a voice-ache, even predicaments.
There’s
hearts for thirst, to spin aphorisms, to endure a sense of onus; where purpose
is
painted,
a telic calling, floored to dust; in which—for silence, a level of inward
cries; but
there’s
for joys, a quixotic flight, to sip through discussions; where warmth is cyan
eyes,
a
cultured air, for a sweaty brow; in which—to touch, to feel for flesh, to
invite love.
