There’s
fuchsia brilliance, the measure of visions, longing for satori. We imagine
progress, a family of exotic flowers, knitted at the petals. We marvel at
butterflies, and hide from bumble bees, listening for the color of tones; where
the warm nourishes, while the harsh disciplines, that much closer to adulthood.
There’s the deep azure, painted upon purple eyes, and blueviolet wishes; where
cyan hopes—chisel mantras, to fall into nethermost regions; that’s deep the
soul, trekking through lava, and dark red sulfur; in which are firebricks,
seated on icebergs, a tinge of indigo. I met a beaver, gnawing and talking, and
sketching an image. We looked for closer, at something haphazard, to see for
virtues. Its celibate ink, and garnet wines, to swirl in spirit; its hazel
brown eyes, for starling wings, masked as a weaver; but know for love, an Asian
smile, and African soul; and mend the dots, nibbling sugar plums, and slicing
apricots; for there are remnants, of an ancient soul, even Egyptian breaths; to
fever a heart, to caress an orchid, a mile into mistyrose thoughts. I saw a swan, to peer at grace, that much
more distraught; for there is anguish, a sea of tides, to wonder for brave;
where this is image, to seep into bones, to mimic the examples; in which are
both—for joy and pain, to become a marksman.
There’s something gray, concerning the hands of time, to sink into the
mystery; where mothers tint emotions, to give for strength, to mold the
wisdom. The linen is spirit, and
medium blue angst, that closer to the river; to cross turquoise rocks, and olive
algae, filled with a wild obsession; but in truth, the love of ferrets, probe a
psyche, to see for such comforts.
