I
imagine blue ribbons, a sealed kiss, to land upon a cheek; where diamonds are
fire, a furnace of jewels, a living goddess.
It was golden, the call of rivers, to trek the turmoil; whereat was
hurt, to state it boldly, to want for time. Such a phrase, spinning yarn, to
ravel friction; where flight is gesture, the pressure of love, to grieve the
loss. I often wonder: “Are the roses
purple, filled with wine?” I’m but a
fool—ever adrift—to ground for reason; in which is pain, to fly freely, to court
Wisdom. Oh for dreams, to amble
through hell, calling through abandoned souls; to usher life, even forgiveness,
to vet every sentence; for this is life, the freedom of pash, to build a
mirage. I remember rain—the heart of
justice—churning a tornado; for thitherto, the tides of death, a contract
turned sour. I still envision, this
stately bond, to publish a thousand books; but more to daughters, to link with
sons, to master the craft; moreover a noetic fire, streaming through oceans, to
court the goddess; for love is measures, a kind plethora—of soothing gestures;
where love is rare, even authentic, a grace called human; in which are castles,
even mansions, a celestial kiss. It’s
often for color, where beige is outlived, to rejuvenate an engram; for this is
webs, a need for flare, a greed for romance.
I pardon the clouds, to see for self, an image on a kite; whereat is
fever, the yen of seasons, to part a red vision; for hitherto, the vines of
never, as cozy as a thornpatch.
There’s a light of strings, the points of pressure, avoided by most
souls. What is this thing—plaguing
for probing, to live that life? I
ask—aware of courage—to speak it in innocence; in which are scars, soothed with
salve, for screaming.
