We
chief the furnace, this closer to life, to joy a daughter swan; for this is
love, the grave of essence, as pregnant as epiphanies. I love eternal, the ache
of chills, the rills of this inner strife. We want for passions, to wrestle
Agrippa, the words of a sullen apostle; in which are stars, the dungeons of
prayer, to flame a fevered feature. The heart is law, to know your name, ever
to plague a grieving soul. There’s broken skin, a mother for Digest, bleeding a
blissful bane; in which are scars, for a fallen bridge, to mend eternity. Oh
the contrast, to blend forever, the scope of inner musings; for I love you
more, to know for pain, an escape we can’t find; and gods are near, a page in
Psalms, to cleat a thriving vessel. The nights are wisdom, the birth of
touching, to feel for ecstasies; where mothers cry, to see the Ghost, watching
as doors shift backwards. We think for winds, a mother on sherm, a comedy
turned tragic. I hear a princess, to know for death, afraid to confess the
rain; and more is angst, the paint of death, to picture the future. My dearest swan, the volts are plenty, to
strike a nerve; where love is felt, to challenge betweens, an infant in the
desert. I love you more, to feel you grow, a lady in a bubble; where passion
soars, the doors of life, to perish for resurrection. I know of psychs, to
trickle spikes, the earth of this tension; where art is grains, to thresh a
soul, the walk of U-Turns. Feel to live, the width of tears, to dig into a
person’s mind; where this is us, the fuss of dying, to picture more for
perfect; in which are potions, the scent of cherries, to forward a fallin’
affliction. I love you born, to save
the grief, a terror, six feet shy; where curves are joy, the wealth of
pressure, as near as breath.
