We
traipse through water, the tapestry of lives, the textiles of pains. It's engrained deeply,
pawing
through Lana, to music a mansion; where rooms are haunted, for holy a soul,
kneeling
near a halo. We picture perfectly, to pocket prayers, through purgatory. It was
us,
to gradual a death, to flex a breath; whereat—dimensions, a blank mirage, to
dive
into
madness; for every kiss, a bit to pull back, gripping a wrist; in which—a
tornado,
to
yearn to sing, through a silent voice. I cried, Rihanna, to filter through
love, to hear
an
echo; where Avril died, to utter life, to witness Adele. There’s a fever, to
surge through
poets,
to wreck an atmosphere. We perish softly, the grit of lights, to courage a
vehicle.
It’s
more the tracks, to scribble Sunset, to paint Brentwood; for what to know, a
ghetto
soul,
to stream through colors; where walls melt, for acidic storms, to drip through
ecstasy.
I felt Beyoncè, to scream of liquor, an integral life; in which—to cherish, an
aching
grief, to reach a miracle; where eyes are heavy, to rope for syllables, to
piece with
diligence;
for there’s a river, in a lotus-soul, where petals are torn; whereat—for
tissue,
a
mind to weather, the storm of times. I read it in death, for years outspoken,
to outsoar
an
oozing cry; where to speak—is for summons, cringing in a dark room. We love it
to
blossom,
to bud upon membranes, a dungeon for cries. The hurt is the icing, with such
abandon,
to dismiss the rain; for it wasn’t them, but more addiction, where time is
limited.
I ache this cut, to carry a boulder, drifting through a psyche; for earth is
motion,
to
pause the traffic, to catch a glimpse; where love is miracle, to harness
affliction,
for
souls have met; whereat—is growth, a want to unlatch—an evergreen mind.
