I
wander through thoughts, to remember the cryptic, and the steep canyons; and
there you dwell, a product of my soul, struggling to come near. Its fever to
feel it—this churning ache, to vanish from one’s self; that inner person,
semi-fortified, until reality rains. There’re more dimensions, a diary of
pains, a mandolin flowing gracefully; where rhythms beat, to wooden wands, to
see a hidden picture; for it couldn’t be, the drawing from—to eradicate the
source; for power reigns, depending on persons, as saturated as moonshine. I felt you closer, a wave to a heart, to
clamp and utter, love; but what to
feel, through stranded moments, to watch a dragonfly. It was ever you, the
thoughts of literature, to find us at this moment; and it was ever us, to fall
the sunlight, to caress a thorn; for this is rain, the color of tears, to
wobble through thoughts; and pictures form, to favor an image, to sit
alone. Our novel is printed—in the
Book of Life, a thrumming butterfly; to see in beige, the extent of unknowing,
as endless as breath; so fly the night, as brave as love, to snag every
temperature; else the forecast, to rule the day, the dampest miseries. I feel you more, to trek the outcome, to
reckon humanity; where love is gray, the feature of stems, to wonder upon the whys; but more to life, to shift and
swim, to caress a heartbeat. It never
could be—the hatred of love, or to abandon souls; but this is rain, to flood
the trenches, to awaken a star; so sail the seas, as an inner captain, to
negotiate with persons; where this is art, the action of times, to harvest the
elixir: that deeper grain, that mental knowing, to see it as seen in Spirit; for
the camp has fled, the clock is stubborn, and there’s a deadline to meet.
