Oh
for costumes, the wear of silken flesh, the tears of passion. Oh the parched, dying through thirst, to
cleave forevermore—where forever is climax, an unborn moment, to perish the
purple gardens—to chance velvet flies, as high as haloes, as low as sediments. We sniffed the day dust, unfit for
traffic, musing a teacher’s verbiage; if only for pleasure, a born hedonist,
with thoughts for sewage. If only a
streamlet, or even a ripple, for to perish this love. Oh the magnets, to flourish with grace,
sipping claret wine, feeding a lizard; this thing of clamps, a coquettish
nightmare, to know for one more drink.
Such dint for styles, an earnest reply, to know for regret. I must to pause; a gracile tear, as
forbidden as birth, winking at anxiety.
I flood a heart, as febrile as rabies, as rabid as love. Its pristine
thighs, for henna curves, a siren to wreck ambition. Oh the moonstruck, to feel that feeling,
as if a teenager; it’s rare these scars, as jaded as villains, to grog something
dormant. I feel the welter, to fish
for joy, found in a mere glance. Oh
the measure, for so much to linger, captured in something fleeting. We wanted victory, to meet for glory, a
touch of moil; where smiles hypnotize, to plant a seed, to never see it
again. What is this life: as genteel
as first touch; as forgotten as love; as bold as death? I now pass, to grip for sunshine, the
pride of Jonah—the flame of linchpins; to heart for grit, the reign of pash, to
write for touched; whereat is pressure, somewhat epicurean, a churning life;
where nary a soul, tugs this grief, to scribble a dream. So left to wander, to wonder, to glare
through visions; of one for grand, a scar of sadness, as radiant as first love.
