To
feel right now, an old delusion, where love for imagination. I
shaved
an apricot, and tapped-danced wildly, to spell out love. We
dined
in atmospheres, wailed on shores, amped off of strawberries.
At
present, it’s Truffle Butter, to
reminisce Every Moment; where
time
settles, to misread a gesture, born intentional. We’re more
aloof,
a must to tug, to roll for red carpet. I’m paragliding, an
old
terrain, suspicious of words. They float like kites, sing in tenor,
to
romance a tickle. Such delusion, to see for grace, a face upon
clouds;
ever for lost, found in bass drums, to rupture reality;
whereat
were words, tugging slightly, to picture France. Oh the
language,
for russet red lips, to nibble cherries. I died our vision,
streaming
Sade, mesmerized by Jolie, staring at fiction; where
want
for breath, to learn for Old English, speaking in silent sounds.
Oh
for unspoken, to wonder of Rihanna, or Aniston, or Lana. I
pause
to puff, a swat’s agency; in which we see, a Kardashian
legacy,
where mother is quite proud; whereat are eyes, grooming
innocence,
courting delusion. I sent for ghosts, our names in
fiction,
the need for illusions; but never for kindness, but only for
minds,
to jettison seduction; for hopeless this dance, the plight of
Juliet,
to confess to a psych, “I’m partly gone”; to hear for
—“Why,”
racing to a safe house. We loved in vision, the heart’s
churn,
reading demise; where hell grew—a flock of wings,
wounded for
wretched.
