I Crave Her More

I’m scared to say love—to sing our music, the vultures that linger. The hinges are broken, the backwards of sunlight, the personalities of innocence. We tillage the future, to whittle a tree, that much closer to turmoil; for love is gray, the chorus of pain, the webs of listening; to hear a voice, the cadence of love, a woman our nightmare. I’m scared for love, to gnaw at wildflowers, to sculpt an antique vase; where this is us, for slowly to perish, staring at brown eyes. Oh the fever, the temperament of angst, an afflatus as a star. I love you there, a sullen koan, a father’s treasure-trove; to manumit love, to admire grace, as sign and symbol. The nights are passion, streaming through arms, and longing a fantasy; where pain is thought, a talisman conception, even epiphanies; whereat discernment, to exit a fantasy, to feel it pulling. Oh the gestures, through invisible eyes, stuck and stargazing. I’m scared to say love—to vibrate the fantast, to feel ignescent passions, that closer to turmoil. Indeed, the soulprints, a mandolin for a heart; where to venture, ever the lovelocks, the physics of amore; in which are prose, even a circuit, as fugacious as smiles; where this is us, to share with love, as knavish as confidential; plus, for madness, to cultivate monsters, to censure an aphrodisiac. I’m torn and afraid that much further the essence of fantasy; where alchemy is love, this nebulous venture, the emotions of a nun; in which are fevers, for a burning lesion, as hermetic as Christ. I’m scared of love, and ever for doting, this otiose chase; where love is there, for pure ambrosia, to assuage the deaths. It’s more pianos, a twitching eye, to enfold intentions; and Caesar’s wife, alive and mourning, to seek for comforts.  

I die the breath, this Dartmoor life, the affects of Delilah. It’s opalescent, to ween through portals, this plangent love. We give for life, an unknown self, to twist and churn the mindlights; where death is flagrant, the life of essence, to push and give for souls. Oh the pearl, the richest aesthetics, an infinite love. We ever return, to shatter earthenware, the etiquette of wolves; in which is pain, ineffable rain, to pardon the mishap. I’m scared to love, lilting to lullabies, enlove with leaving. It’s ever quiescent, this calming woe, to become attractive; for love is nigh, to give for mercy, the temperament of hurt souls; and erstwhile, a fever is pushing, to go for deeper. We imbue pain, to infuse love, as opulent as turmoil; for hitherto, the tides of resistance, to finally collapse; to shed a costume, to unmask dearly, to die tugging on an anchor. I perish this action, a blanket of tears, to reach the academic; and bathe this night, the phantom of hearts, drenched in ignorance. Oh for selfhood, the trajectory of pain, to riddle an inner parody; and more an inmost world, even a paradise, barraged with reality; for love is stormed, a tragic comedy, an enchanting cinema; where ocean’s are gray, and ashes are tarot, for shattered linchpins.