Its
gray this vision, to feel for faith, to hurt with words. I never would, Love;
to put for rest, the stress of maybes. I remember joy, but pain shadows—the
days of yore; where food was bliss, the kiss of earth, my gem and stone. It’s
torn an impulse, to speak to fathers, to ask for mercy; where god bleeds, a
trope for scars, to harness travesty; and there’s a swan, newly reborn, to
channel a father. I watch for daybreak, streaming through the wee hours, to
slumber and fail. It was us, to touch for chaste, pulled by fiction; and now
the rain, to gesture a signpost, to wish for myrtle trees. I blaze a song, lost
for typing, to grin at reality. We hate and die—a blazing storm, the bosom of
fools. It’s harsh and true, a chasm for a soul, to caress vexation; but look
for sight, a fleet of dungeons, the keel of trauma. I must admit, to give for
vinegar, to hope for jam; for this is fiction, a social crime, as gallant as
false beliefs; in which is pain, to blow a bowel, to slam a shot; where a
goddess churns, a gentle anguish, to glimmer in nightmares; whereat are tears,
the luster of angst, for starry turmoil. I love for was, to die for is, to
protect but a portion. I’m there and frying, to chisel breath, as dreamy as an
infant. How for this—to never a light—to enrich the sorrow; for cycles churn,
the jut of pain, a bit too aloof. We know for hate, to search for love, the lev of life; where signs are tender—and
easily bruised, to think for home; but never the sight, to blame for folly, a
soldier in a straightjacket. It’s more the whys,
to cry this night, to feature through Ka; but more to Ba, the depth of
grains, as wrung as laundry; where hearts perish, to forget tomorrow, a coop
for a young princess. I’m near the roof, and sitting still, to pressure the
future; in which is passion, the wings of hurt, to float through portals; where
love is heard, aside for pain, to reach beneath the soil.
