Its
conscious tea, to stream monads, a daisy on a mind; and more
for
repeats,
to
hear your soul, a castle of flames; for love is
purpose,
chasing for becoming, aloft fey’s portal.
I finger a graph,
somewhere
between thoughts,
a
storm quite teary with fires. I’ve
said for nothing, to proclaim
love,
to risk perjury; for life’s so gray, to float illusions, a clown’s abyss; for
tears—are memories, to tug a nerve,
where
God remembers. The curtain fell, for
a crazed man, as mad as politics; where
was
for flaws,
an
oiled pulse, to
trespass
an island. We’re knitting dreams,
lost in fantasy, to kindle
delusions;
where angels filter, the dirge of nights, lost in your penmanship. I loved a whim, captured and secluded, fishing
for diamonds; where hearts mis-grew, to flutter panic, a
whale
in a pond. I’m flapping and morphing
a wolf through a forest. The heart is
fevers,
and
years between, to still feel folly.
Oh for conscience; and oh for something
—akin
to love,
where
fire smolders.
