What
of this love—to channel a hive, alive come sunfall; to perish this life, to
hold your hand, as torn as a summer breeze. We love it—to see it, this part of
heaven; and partial my days, to ponder a gesture, as one that’s flooded; to see
it come, that special space, to breathe for woman. I’ve changed this life, as
something cordial, to balance the flickering flame; and ever to hold back, a
bit notorious, to stumble through troubles. Oh the fleshly slain, the
sustenance as sulfur, a tendency gone crazy; to print your eyes, and laminate our
dreams, to gear towards the immortal; and dream we could, to nurse a child, as
wild as summer rain; but this is love, the burden of visions, as blind as a
newborn; for I couldn’t see us, to plague the wrongs, to feign for happiness;
and I couldn’t feel us, to paint for perfect, this natural course; so more to
pain, to fracture the jots, that torn through cities. Oh for that love,
something rare, to give to a few; and oh for this life, to share with one, plus
a household of children. I know the measure, to feel acclaimed, and at least
for worthy—to carry a seed, as a rites of passage, as grand as evolution; and
pain heard, to rift the shadows, as fevered as the last tide; to reckon
forever, where times change, to shatter both wants and dreams; but oh the tales,
to shower the truths, stationed at a red light; to build a fortress, the aches
of sorrow, as fortified as that last touch; in which to perish, if must we
know, to repent the days. I’m lost to think it—that it came so swiftly, but a
day of turmoil; to see for such rain, the cover of fools, to drip into a
crevice; and love failed, to think of perfection, a light ten tiers below; to
know for angst, without the length, that reaches for a safety valve.
