We
filter through grays, to feel reality, churning through hearts. The gate is
open, for us to swim, to stream an impulse. I bless you more, such formative
years, to deny abandonment. It was never that color, as beige as parents, a
field of fiction. The flowers bloom, to carry smiles, the furniture of
insights; where ghosts cringe, to come alive, an impression saying, “Goodbye.”
I love you pure, the days to float, sitting at a heater; to play a notion, to
sing for more, stranded at a guitar; but more to flight, the throes of harmony,
a hydrant as a soul; where islands blend, through instrumentals, a kettle in a
basement. I’ve passed a key, the breadth of lights, a kiss for a young lady; in
which is love, a ladybug tear, to wonder for the chaos. I strip a tare, to
needle a feeling, to flame a sudden reach. It’s all in codes, and scented oils,
to take for knees. The knife is logic, an inner knot, to know for tragic
windows; where something peers, a sullen knowledge, to wonder of walking away;
but must to see, this inner mirror, the language of our woes; whereat is peace,
to know reality, to vet every leaf; and lifting light, to leave a dungeon, as
liquid as a glass of wine. We feel
to partake, walking a lunchroom, to reject confusion; but this is venue, to
sort the madness, as charged as television. I love you more, from marble to
gold, to unravel a mask; where Mass is held, the bread and blood, a must to
transcend. We administer music, the nerve of souls, to paint the color of
peace; where hell is keen, a quicksand alley, running to the fields; in which
are ways, the waves of rain, the quilt of queens. I hear you more, to sail a
seed, as forward as impact; whereat is life, the taste of tears, a picture as a
tent.
