Seven Feathers of a Wing

I can’t remember, to think we know, of a life that’s ours; and I can’t feel, this heated fever, as gothic as love. We thought for us, akin to reality, to forfeit that stream; where letters perish, a medieval pang, to dig the dregs of souls. Its phone to dream, and dream to phone, to scream, “Just say it.” We run from images, a marathon of traumas, to pause at a bedpost; and die our souls, a moment of clarity, to understand the rests. Its two weeks of love, a collage in hindsight, something special to a stranger; but this is love, that intense adrenaline, featured at an edge; to perish the silence, to relish the rain, to kiss the make-believe; for this is far, if not a myth, to scrape a distant mind; and what of love, to have for many, to vision of few. I’m strong the nightmare, and tough the outcome, as primal as first attraction; but never could, to think of would, to admire a skirt; where this is life, the change of thoughts, some type of judgment.

We’ve died to dream, as bold as actors, to see it live; to knit a purse, and pass a valve, that closer the midnight; and as more for love, to wonder of presence, to think of Simone; even more Madonna, to shelter a thought, that grew in turmoil; so more is vest, this deep allure, to flip a thousand coins; where voice is law, to hear the sound, and plucking grass. Oh the electric, this inner piano, the ruth of our reality; to shine as diamonds, to play for cocky, to know for love.