Is
it mystery, this mauve reality, this orchid of hearts; to come as presence, a
lilac in bloom, as cerise’s of our souls? Oh for mystic wings, and semiprecious
stones, a garnet in a psyche. It’s not merely love, as it is the power, or
dahlia of caves—this welkin of minds. You’re deep azure, a product of Zion, a
flute to awaken souls; but never a glance this mystery, to leap into a mirror,
to picture eyes as lutes. Its tender devotion, as devout as honor, as earnest
as lieutenants! Something surges, as mention of a soul, a mind full of mystery.
You’re a bracket, an intricate gusset, as pillars of this strength. Our world
is pain and pearls and mystic laughs—singing through cryptic sorrow. The hills were upon us—as kings and
queens, to chant into a gentle space; our souls floated upon leaves, a calming
for wolves, to morph into spirits. The two were one—floating through sky-wings,
to fly as blue nights; even anguish appeared, to search out for sources, where
memories appeared—without reason or source. Bells are ringing, as gates of
grace are opened—we sit in a pool of wine, wetless.
I hesitate to utter a few words—that closer to confession. Oh for sketches
of love, to breathe but suddenly live, as tinge—or more perfect—a presence. I
imagine a sage, graced in fluency, as holiness of a scarf; to jazz as a spar,
to carry a legacy, to retreat at applause. The shores are speaking, this sacred
language, moaning through ebbs—smiling throw flows: Is this your soul? I wonder as an arc evolves, generated through
intensity, to know an inward sketching; to see it as purple moons, to feel it
as russet suns, rising in a state of sadness. Oh to be free, or long for
station, a freedom akin to losing; for this is rapture, even Sophia, to outwit
mere yearnings; so we fly, as mystic topaz, as turquoise visions.
