We
love them, an interstate of children, ever for the Ghost. We watch for Spirit,
through purple eyes, as royal as gold plates. I more for love you, to prep for gardens,
as rosy as red petals.
We’re lost in rituals, neither scent nor candle,
to interpret an utterance. I love you
more, to disregard chains, ever to probe forward. The vine is cast, ever your soul, to greet
the children. It’s less for priests, and more for fathers, to perform the rites;
for the forest is vast, filled with shadows, to hearken unto a lark. The nights are shaded, even painted in
contrast, where secrets speak. Take
for life, to sprinkle water, to consecrate life; for something haunts, the eyes
of parents, to dig into souls; where purgatory wails—the signs of redemption,
to visit resting eyes. I can’t for
panic, tugged and pulled, aware of children.
It’s not for fancy, but rather for clarity, to push the rituals. It’s a daily affair, to feel for low, to
rise gradually; so dig for broke, to rev the heart, to bless the family; even
more, to bless a foe, and even more, the world. I feel alive, to feel it drift, ever to
commune. We die so often, and why for
not—to bless a soul! I love you more,
and born a bit cursed, to see it lift.
I must confess, a loss of guile, to believe for good—to channel in our
favor. It’s a secret deep, buried in
experience, where one endures a fleet of spears; in which are balls, to connect
to souls, to feel as you feel. This
is life; and oh so wonderful, to soothe a soul. The fire is you, meshed with Spirit, to
feel a tiny leap. I ask for God, a
solemn gift, to feel it exit. We must
for try, to seek a thought, and even a guide; but more to mind, the power
thereof, where mind is heart—and heart is mind; else to perish, to watch
disaster, where God is waiting for initiative—plus to nudge a flame. I more for love you, big on values,
scraping skies. Let us breathe their
nights, and feel their days, to usher purpose.
