Its
velvet hearts, erumpent passions, and silent animosities;
it’s
but one—a mixture of women, to manumit the idyllic.
We
hike for intuition, a heartstring thrumming, as sacred as
young
swans; to feel the unsaid love, a soul cocooned, a
keepsake
as a daughter; and more the mystery, a woman’s
dream,
to be treasured geometry; in which aflight—an
inward
gallery, sipping at
the
Great
Heart.
The
psaltery soars, to morph into fragrance, spinning
through
midair; it’s such a secret, the songs of moments,
to
veil the dynamics; where princess failed—the tender
bruise,
an echo to a friend.
Forever
the walls, the speaking of bricks, wrapped in ecstasy;
to
trim a fantasy, to think in ideals, that closer to unrest;
where
love is sealed, to see the worst, and adore the essence.
Its
pavement tears, for the vaguest days, enlove with the
challenge;
and yes for pain, a fallible drive, to test the
wavelengths;
where tender the nights, a written infraction,
squatting
to avoid the turmoil.
Oh
the poetry, to go through hell, and come out with
pom-poms;
the girth of magic, the mystic realm, crawling
and
crying the majesty. Its trials to
rapture, or the playing
of
perfect, to last two years; in which for trauma, the honor
of
hate, to master deception; to utter for anything, and
wonder
of reception, as angry as naïve.
