I
run the risk of fracturing time, that close to a weary soul; to cry the tune—of
life for death—the breath of an inward wand. Our lament is sore—the value of
pain, to churn unto salvation; to know a secret, the fallin’ of chi, an energy
as Spirit. I wither in fragments, a fretful plight, to wonder of a failed
beginning; and love this heart, a window of souls—the daunting dance of dawn!
We perish an outcome, the saddest memory, clothed in perfection; and near for
pasture, the plucking of plums, as pure as April.
I
hear the cry—of endless times, tattered and bruised; to see for glory, a
gleaming contour, the beauty of pain; and die this night—of morning
resurrections, a spider as a brain.
We
structure the angst, that closer the garden, an advocate of daylight; where
love is grand, the feather of wings, to nourish a churning soul; where love is
purple, and art is green, to filter the beige outcomes.
Our
love is stressed—by girth and value, to polish this image of maybes; and fly
this warmth, to break free a coffin, to emit a series of sparks; for this is
love—the waves of passion, to censure the partial reasons; and die that turn,
that fearless dance, as sidereal as blackholes.
I
speak for love—that torn event, where distance numbs intensity; but this is life,
a spiritual residue, as esoteric as silence: to live and shine, the vest of
woes, a soldier of Samson's;
