Let
it be free, this inner web, floating through flux; for life is grey,
an
oasis of pain, a trestle made of bones. I felt for winds, to hear
your
name, a woman twice my wisdom. The arts are perfect, to
touch
through wafting waves, to ignite a furnace. It’s more to
reappear,
even to self, as low as heartsores; where passion is grim,
for
love is mechanics, flickering come hostility. I love you patient,
to
never a sight, as crooked as straight lines. It was never perfume,
but
raw the character, a downpour of personality; where pressure
soared,
to cut for nerves, as latent as a first kiss. The grit is
nightmares,
the wings of turmoil, to never stroke an eyebrow.
This
is flames, to churn through loins, to reach for an impression;
where
lights are beige, a crooked number line, where facts
misrepresent.
The heart of queens, even Cinderella,
an ache for a
fallin’
sun; in which is panic, to hear your chi, raging through a
tender
psyche. Its lev,
my Love; swimming through mire, a level
for
transfixed; to wrestle this feeling, to feel through vagueness,
a
board of keys turned fatal. I breathe you afar, to run from self, a
pigeon
in a coop; where pain is us, a sight unseen, to terrify souls.
