We
never know—for this journey—filled with pits. We never know for precious, a
young lady, to master years; or rather for grains, filtered in tentacles—a
slight sadness. We rarely see it, to stumble our lives, angry for choices; and
thus, filled with stress, a turn for blindness; and never this rain, as potent
as vinegar, to choose for triumph; for life is motion, to pause at intervals,
to return to motion; where swans wrestle—to hear for truths, where souls
prevaricate. The magic is mystic, to nestle with souls, in which is heaviness.
There’s something revealed, a part of self, to touch for freedoms—to alter
self. There’s a deep hassle, to war regrets, to cherish a swan; but what for
rules, and social laws, the mirrors of life. It’s quite for easy, to dislike
self, a captive in a brain; where pain is crucial, to carry injustice, where
shoulders collapse. I felt it in a thought, to opt for triumph, while pushing a
crane. It’s the harshest project, to fix the past, advised to let live; but
something dies, something pure, hardened by disappointment. I lived it,
listening to blues, as a young man; where now for grays, and magenta prose,
becoming this force; in which are fears, to see for smiles, buried in
resentment; but this is fate, to pick with caution, despite the beauty; and
this for thought, your heart was destined—to dance and unlock. We unfurl souls,
to watch us blossom, as keen as cheetahs; to alter misfortune, an eyelash hair,
to stir a storm; where tender the night, to caress the darkness, and morph
through bright lights; for torn asunder, to tiptoe truths, as years turn to
madness. The laughs are few, a portfolio of dreams, to offer for candor; in
which is tapered, to peer at draperies, to endear a part of self. It’s so
ambiguous, this torn ambrosia, to suffer such a dearth; so disabuse heart, my
flowing light, to feel for essence.
