We
touch gravel in Spirit, the breath of a hearthole craving, to see this death,
the width of life, where a seed must perish. His face shall change—the girth of
whirlwinds, a pebble in the rivers; where tides blend, a reckless churn, the
terns of infinity. I died this love, and that unaware, to lose eternity; and
cried that wake, piercing into graves, the bones of his skeleton; wherefore is
magic, the graphic heartbeat, to rattle the cages. I feel her—the measure of
sifting through wines, the challenge of our days; to pull the concrete, and
drill for motion, an art taken for granted. It was tears insanely, to approach
the well-less, where the trench was flooded, and thus I ask for pardons, for
flagrant infractions, where love was misappropriated; and dance these skies,
the inverted clouds, a cherubim soaring; to fraction life, the width of her
groans, and moaning in agony; but how to touch, a brimming dam, that closer to
fortifying destruction? Was it a moment, to lengthen days, where gray became
black and white?—for I knew an addict, with deep aversion, to cherish her very
breath; and I knew a woman, the likes of mother, to crave her very soul; where
the nights were burdened, and the pains were special, to usher a wealth of pressures;
for love was torn, a miscalculation, an aberrant of affairs; to surf the
desert, while standing in stillness, the measure of warm hearts. We love in
kind, our mirrors' reflection, to stumble about the forest; and why for us, the
count of leaves, to travel each vein? I give us life—the angst of love, twelve
years nigh perfection; to sit is anguish, that close to bliss, this pulling of
souls; and weave this art, the heart to wheeze, the breeze of her gaze.
