Is
it love, to cherish the lesser, as attached as egos? I sip, but rarely rightly,
to hear the sentence; where pain is seeping, to grieve the years, to watch for
green eyes. The love was passion, to lose for all, the gall of our natures. I
met a psych, fully the grains, as potent as the unseen; in which is life, to
learn in kibbles, the embrace of thoughtcaves. We’re tender, to embark on life,
a teacher as a muse; whereat sorrows, the width of actions, where a token was
guiltless. I met a mystic, as raw as wolves, to guide for souls. I laugh the
reigns, to chide the breadth, enlove with the very measures. It’s quite insane—to
hold you—a moon afar; and love courted, to know for never, to wonder the
spectrum. We die the legacy, to culture a volt, for maintaining distance. I
smile the irony—to love and die, to die and live. We never would, for this is
death, to kiss a partial stranger; for ours is myth, and plus for rules, where
a beast cries for freedom. I drift a portal, to see for eyes, to withdraw a
being; where souls mingle, to flood with particles, to witness the ice melting;
and thus for flame, to burn with fire, to keep for distance. This is life, to
resist an inner self, to maintain perfection. I’m ever the same, to give for
comfort, to want rebellion. It’s lights and pain, to stress for comfort, and
yearning for monsters; in which is passion, to witness a child, to perish in
brown eyes. I love the grit, a woman our wisdom, trailing mother’s path; where
pain is self, and self is tears, the girth of a last vowel. Give us life; the
piers of joy, to tremble passion, to do for righteous.
