It’s
hard to fly, my Love—forever this station, searching the embedded slopes; to
see your smile, as cultured as humble, as bold as velvet. We found a thought,
to journey this sphere, as broken as crumbs; and I saw a tomb, to bracket the
wings, where guffaw echoed. If only a palm, the nails of life, and gave so
much; to see the birds, to feel the geese, a number as a symbol; so sevens it
is, to bless your soul, through winter thorns; in which the death, as something
grand, to yearn your eyes. The heart churns and waxes cold—for essence is
darkened; and how to cheer, the crooked days, that morph through years; but
love is pliers, to uncork the rain, a link in our chain; where hell unravels,
and gavels slam, to rule in your favor. I give us this—this immortal board, as
fevered as Christ; and I give us this—this hysteria, as orderly as grandpa’s
love; where so much pained—the heart and soul, to see the repeats—and know for
not; but more to us, this favor of friends, riddled with pigmentation. We chase
eternal, to hold regrets, to blink a bit too often; and died come life—and
submitted came life—and rebelled came death. I know you by blood, and mold you
by Spirit, and grandma knows—the flow of ancestors, the girth of magic, the
width of heaven. It’s amazing, Love—to perish and flourish, as florid as
cathedrals, as present as a heart clasp; where militia is prayer, and Krishna’s
preserver, and Vishnu is segue. Oh for Lord, to hold for secrets, to utter
silence; so I never told, to live it boldly, to reap the pastures; in which is
soul, the repute of pains, the essence of God; and it couldn’t be—the same ousia—to plague the souls; and it
couldn’t be—the lev of minds, to wrap
this heart; and yes it is!
