Oh
for mercy—to see it breathe,—this life called love.
Such
undertones—for floral petals—a trumpet’s echo!
Its
porcelain bouquets, where vows are
masterpieces,—shadowed in velvet aches;
for love
is kilns—through concrete gestures, fevers
forevermore.
Oh
for heart-caves—to feel the furnace,—a portrait
upon a mind-graph, ever an art gallery.
Calligraphy
paints a sky. Murals imprint souls. The
earth is photos.
Oh
for violet dreams, sprinkled through regions—
buried in the spirit of excellence.
Such
ecstasy: to trickle through a fountain; to know for
iron-wills.
