I
love you—this fading dream—captured between sips. To meddle with sanity; to
ponder upon a bridge; the girth of undead lilies! I felt a tulip, break a soul, to form a
picture; where silhouettes dance, where particles ballet, where fever
percolates. I’m a kettle, Love; flaming
in a cedarchest, sanding an armoire, suspicious of mindstates. There’s gelid an ache, as fierce as
glaciers, probing this behavior. I
remember gifts: a thoughtful glance; a purpose to ignore. I imagine love, built upon a palace, flying
a silent call. This is chance, to romance a feeling, where sanity calls. I’m running slowly, carving a cadenza, to
immortalize love; whereat are stars, mourning a farewell, speaking to blatant
truths. There’s rebuilding—to shift
the planets, to tilt the exospheres; where fecundity blossoms, to sprinkle
souls, to remedy this grieving scarecrow.
It’s now telepathy, or even prose, a jolt
for apogee. It’s a warming sensation—a
turn dialogical—a dialogue beneath the surface. This is us: airborne—aloof—even
exiled. Love is less illusion, a
field of physics, as tangible as heartbeats; where pressure builds, massaging
ego—while crushing ambitions. The
surface is perfect—where this is kingdom—a drive to impress; in which I fault
us not—for life is image—even a perfect spouse. I laugh to ponder it—where they do
also—but this is for image: a grand event, buried in mishaps. The rain is fallin’. The birds are hidden—with
still echoes of a lovesong—a space for souls; in which is life, even words in a
bracket—flying our crystorm. I’m
ascetic, Love; to see but dreams—clouding a mindstate—received as plebian
light; in which is hurt, the grandest scale, flooding waves.
