We’re
territorial beings, enclosed in mischief, taught for insecurities. It’s quite
the method, the fringes of doubt, to alter a young lady’s life; and still for
running, through thorns and briers, to hold for fruits. The sign is heaviness,
to know for disorder, to challenge a series of thoughts. The root is quite
obvious—a form of control—to conquer wills.
We
often believe concepts, despite truths—running ramped a mind. He knew for dice,
the light of sevens, enlove with the last roll; but life is segments, a moment
mature, to bleed a soul.
We
venture against odds, often to reign supreme, if but a section in time;
moreover the love, found in rarity, as devoted as nuns. We know this love, for
we know this rain, to cherish come souls.
She
melted to see it—the feud of love—to earn a tassel. (I drift)
I feel chills—to feel her—this mechanism; and I know for terror, the grief of balance, to reason for unfit. I’m girt with passion, the folly of sight, an anklet for a stranger. We darken steps, to melt and perish, as feeble as manufactured. Oh the theme, a daughter for a dream, to scream the last motif. It ripples harshly, to know the failure, to engage for gallant; where dalliance dwells, to hold a foe, that much more the gray. Our comely souls, to brood and dine, as gorgeous as tragedy; to see for roots, a scented soul, where eyes are tearless—but tearful. It’s heavy the night, the fringe of breath, to confess to a psych; in which are flutes, to wed remorse, to pluck a saffron flower. The days are grim, a lotus to a scar, a feigned tribute; where urgent is law, the prow of souls, digging for azure; whereat the chalice, to sing in gold, to baptize a mother. I love her more, a bobcat smile, a dolphin for a soul. Oh the firefly—to give for messages, a heart squirming through a furnace; and Bambi cried, the smallest of deers, to meet her eyes. We watch a lemur, a bit detached, to see our lives; and close to chert-rock, for marble prayers, ever to carve for stone. I see us grieving, through granite earth, to feel it rising. The pain for segue, to nurture the ghosts, to transport warmth. My precious soul, to sit a pouch, to flee the kangaroo; and this is life, despite the charm, to see a sacred mirror; where venture the stars, the pit of foxes, the temper of a sea-lion; and this is rain, a bleeding ocean, a flamingo’s daymare. I know of swans, a catlike nature, and a sandstone wish; and hitherto, for Asian water, to watch the cape cobra. It’s never clear, to see for truths, to wonder of the nightfall.
