I
get lost to love her; pictured in a maze, somewhat senile; for I can’t remember,
the aches and hate, flying through climaxes. She’s the finest china, the
public’s eye, as precious as newborn hope. I can’t for dying; and can’t for
living—the grandest sin. The fewest words, storm internal, to kiss
insecurities. We’re higher this cloud, for lower this hell, to forfeit fancy
letters.
I
walked away, somewhat childish, to forsaken dreams; for love is wild, a castle
in a soul, a bit florescent, to flourish in grays, as wanton as ‘without
rules’. We stippled marble, to unmask justice, to desecrate both. The sun is
witness, to see us writhing and dying and laughing and starry-eyed pests. Oh to
minister, for multiple repeats; and still for love, the wildest womb.
It’s
a sacred clash; for fevered music; a nerve distorted dearly. Oh to paint the
love of life; to capture an unruly peace; where two become one—flaming in
brilliance; and oh so honest! It kept us moving; and not for secret—the longest
love-death; where a queen was quicksand, for a king was anchor: to tug and pull
and live and twist—through a maze of pictures, standing in memories. I cleave
to this breath, to quilt a naked wound, to dance before rain, to sail the
forbidden; where sated and joyous, and loved for grayish, and dearly a pain we
couldn’t walk; and still for trekking, a groundless cave—fallin’ and floating
and planting for trees.
