There’s
a social piccolo—the likeness of joy, to converse with rhapsody.
It
finds its peak in academia; a collage of jargon, the pricking of egos.
Our
costumes breathe, a kinetic force, for moments infused. Often for
genuine
colors, even aesthetics, found perfect in features. To see for
ghosts,
layered in smiles, opens up a column—where something shines,
a
gravitational force, a soiree of wittiness. Life is pictured fluorescently:
a
concept for motion, the motif of gestures, an immortal quality. We
venture
for this feeling, to follow lines, streaming from skylights: the
tones
of chi, embedded in form, the texture of contrast. We sketch an
outline,
as conscious as genres, to idealize a color scheme. The wheel is
sacred,
thus, never opaque, as open as pastels. We shape vignettes, to
picture
a scene, an enigma to ourselves; where shyness drifts, a sparkle
ignites,
a photo is captured. The mind breathes, featured in therapy, a
serene
dialogue. Words are nestled, to shimmer in prose, an outpouring
of
passion; whereat is laughter, the nudging of souls, the image of
comfort;
in which we bask, a semblance divine, to bathe in sunlight. It’s
mystery
for rhyme, a musical rhythm, even quotes to verse. There’s a
sense
of stardust, an incantation, a window unsung.
