It
escapes me the pendulum of this fever; at times a sense of oneness, colored by
a tinge of reality, to know you through my idiosyncrasies; and hold you this
light, through sheer proximity, to thirst this inner rapture—and wherever is
you, crawling through sight-waves, seeping into inward valleys; and wherever
it’s you, tugging at tentacles, infusing a sudden moment; and I dig—but dearly
not deep enough, to pull at a walking monsoon; to see our glory, where the
story is partial, and no one gains entrance; and these are insecurities, to
take you from the world, if only to secure our union; where this is falsity,
for to live in caves—is to perish in dungeons; thus you would hate me, an
insecure man, feigning as the king of the legends; and live our dreams, as
giants to this world, where rapture is security—despite the flirtations. Is it
scruples, to hold acidic tears, where I perish to entertain; and must I take
the stage, even in sleeping hours, to hold your love; and was I clever, to
utter this paradox, and learn for trust a partial stranger? It feels uneven,
where the days are mellow, and you stand a statuesque queen; and it feels
uneven, to witness so many shades, pushing towards power; and it feels uneven,
a pair of serpents praising this union; but this is me—a world of thoughts,
losing to gain eternity; and this is me, too fraught to believe, that someone
so wonderful loves this soul; and this is me, pushing to nestle dreams—the
reach of a moment in passing. We delight in banter, for something so simple—to
raise distrust; and we delight is joy, where it rarely pulls—at the mystic
core; for pains reign, as something ironic, to knit a fortress; and more the
bias, for joy is also—a maze for connections; but this is life, the media of
dreams, flooding our subconscious; to strangle inhibition, where we yearn
forgiveness, as if to say, Hold me despite
your flaws; and more to see, an inner feature, screaming for mercy.
