To Expect for Unreal

He’s a bit confused, to see her broken; and such a strong woman. We take her for granted, the flare of fevers, to ignore the conductor; where a maestro glares; and filled with panic, to encounter such strength; but this for burden, to crave humanity, the want for a type of weakness; if only to cuddle, if only to cry, the churn of an argument. We fix for love, to die for love, if love is perfect; so broken love—is shoveled loved, buried near a basement; so more the perfect love, to perish a cultured love, the extent of our silent love. She blossoms is pieces, the stem of charms, the dharma of life; to carry rain, the shedding of skin, that closer a stranger.

She’s a bit confused, to see him broken; and such a strong vessel. She took him for granted, to expect the best foot, despite the inner turmoil; in which is chaos, to claim for human, where she wants perfection. Oh the trauma-fields, to see her leaning—upon a shattered man; and both are grey, to stand for tall, whereat are secrets. He grips for strength, to please a gadfly, and often she feels the same. How to fly—a perfect attitude, permitted no other feeling; it’s truly a scandal, even a masquerade, where the banquet is for two; and strangers met, with a golden child, jealous of such affection; for its inner power, both true and pure, and something she searches for.