I
thought for this love, cringing at hostility, peeking at future battles. We
laugh at grays, suspicious of such laughter, for pelt with
self-consciousness.
I
love you, insanely, the measure of a bedded jewel; and oh the inhibition, ever
to fall forth, the fragrance of eternity; to read the Songs of Psalms, loving
your essence, to wrestle with insanity. Its spirit of my soul, covered in
passions, the intuition of imagination; for oh to feel us, a fable to a dream,
a vision to personality; where challenge is veiled, to outwit fate, a soldier
chasing for battle; even a senseless war, alert come deaths, a tour unequipped;
running for pressures, to feel the life, arrested by sheer beauty. I panic to
hear it, somewhere the soul, an inner trumpet; for pain is silent, to love
Calypso, the psaltery of our destinies; where existence screams, combating a
future, as bruised as egos; for love is churning, a solemn secret, the papyrus
of tenderness. We die this earth, ever in search—for celestial garments. It’s
the charge of love, to decorate a soul, to know the impermanence; in which a
fleet—of burning love-letters, and hearts hearing warmth; whereto a dungeon,
surfing the seven seas, to confront a fence. We cringe, staring at beauty,
chopping the tree of amore; in which an overstep—the touch of love, as crazed
as rabies. I love us overtaken, barely perceptive, to know for exclusivity.
It’s something of harshness, this unpaved terrain, the relic of deserts; for
both are selfish, rapt in ecstasy, as appealing as nightlife. This is chaos, to
know for smitten, to grip to life; in which is sadness, to finally come to—a
family of baggage; where love is wounded, to suffer aflame, ever hampered by
undertones.
