My
noetic friend, the years have morphed—into floral webs. I see you as life, clad in anthems, as
furtive as psychs; but I can’t resist, to address a star, fevered in a
heartbeat; but more to holy, to drop a soul, the sword of this physic flame;
and oh the grief, to know for wrong, to live it as asylum. We know for truths, to weigh the wrong, to
opt for the deeper treasures; and we know for rain, that inner culture, to
assuage the agony. I hear you less,
to feel you more, as a boon to this life; where art is signs, to point to
hearts, to measure the obscure. There
is much the pain, to gleam in joys, this beam of lightning; to feel for
deathless, to wrest the truth, to wimble the frantic; for this is love—to sort
for souls, even in silence; to hear the woes, and go for deeper, to alleviate
the friction. I think of you, to seek
through angst, a tool for the Father’s hands; but often seen, that near
voltage, to place us in Christ’s soul; to ever unbolt, as we swelter dearly, a
pair of fantasts. There’re eyes that
shine, to see you dance, to know for a phantom; to swivet at times, a bit
opaque, to feel the spirit whisk; where this is gray, the chance of dreams—the
agony of the sober heart. I thought
to write, at unawares, the charm of this vatic arm; in which is love, for the
chic of souls, sorted at a deeper venue.
It was never meant, through an absent mind, to disrespect the Mother;
and it was never meant, to shatter images, albeit in the gray; for this is madness,
to reign in daymares, the urge of that crooked surge; so feel and be felt, a
stranger to a friend, the tiptoe of smaze; to drift and see, through
concentration, a likeness of souls; where this is hurt, to come to aid, to live
reception.
