Its
incense and visions, and forever your smiles, hidden beneath the soul.
We
perish dreams, stirring yams, for gnawing despair. It’s ever a motif:
to
love a queen, seared and muddy, to love for pressures. The lights
become
eyes, for burgundy thongs, and perfect calves. Oh for hips, to
shift
for churns, to flood a womb. The seasons panic, to shiver with
angst,
for perfect has fled. We want it filthy, with tact and class, to
redeem
for conscience. The volume totters, a palm of injuries, to touch
the
faceless. We love for shelter, to shatter for poems, to sweat and bleed.
We
watch for brilliance, sealed and sullen, searching and streaming. I
clutch
a vision, to caress a vision, where love awakens angst. I panic to
see
you, to forsake illusions, to know for winters; and ever your style;
and
ever your anger—to finger for dreadlocks. I grip for passion, to drift
through
nights, to see you leaping. I’m ever there, a passing wave—to
measure
a curse. We clash with tension, for something so simple, a
shifting
dimple. The flowers speak, where nature crumbles, to peak and
let
go; four hours pass, to blaze a cigar, laughing and crying; for no one
sees,
a dying vessel, and ever well for love. I float and drift, to pinch a soul,
to remember our
death; where this is life, ever ours, to return for love.
