The
fragrance of evermore;
a
banquet of fantasies, as hormones waft. I saw
her
eyes, travelling his soul, a vestibule of
mirrors.
The fragrance of evermore; the felt,
the
breath—of supernal kisses. To covet the
free—a
gentle sigh; to covet the bonded—a
social
faux pas, worthy of shifty gestures.
Oh
to filch a soul, to swivet through artwars,
the
styles of seduction—akin to folklore: the gravel bleeding, the rose fading,
while the heart is screaming. He’s too shy to mend it: the bloody nights, the
waxing and weaving, where a woman cringes. It’s but a glass: It’s a glass too
many: the weeks of controversy.
We
irrigate souls, attracted to souls. Oh the unconscious, to picklock souls—the
dreams, the shadows—the steaming mire. Such is chaos, to slam a vase, as glass
collects bubbles, writhing in a fireplace.
She
watches the midnights, afraid of loving,
rapt
in silence; to remove a shackle, a tear
detrimental,
to change the currents. He watches,
to
peel back seaweeds, trembling for smitten.
I
saw her eyes, her nocturne eyes, as
stately
as rebellion, bleeding composure.
It’s
the dreams, as potent as subconscious rills, the splendor as symbol—of
something so lofty, to want that forevermore: that feeling, drenched in
pudding, to escape the fleeting; that first high, the feeling of desire, that
eternal mantra. We generate passion, to generate love, or wait for courtship.
Oh to cringe, to speak for little, to do for little—to expect the dreams. Oh
when it lives, the shifts, the turns, to misknow self—ever inflated; to see in
heart, a strange being, as alive as mindwaves; for there’s indelible ache,
where tentacles reach, for passion insoluble. Oh the days, to mourn the city,
to heed the trumpet blast.
