Life
this gentle flower, as opposed to nightmares, running from the grim reaper. Our
rain is purple, this featured love, as radical as Armageddon. We’ve chased a
dream, as one that’s morphing, our light cultured by gravity; as pulling souls,
the wealth of this sadness, to speak of an afterlife.
I’ve
reread a glance, as fevered with flames, as antsy as pacing. Was it our lot, a
pair of tyros, where one was hiding? It’s beyond placation, this wildlife
furnace, where two are aloof. Its angst the feature, and hell the diamonds, to
infiltrate a feeling; in which for madness, to witness our icons, pushing
towards an encounter; for life has perished, a symbol dear, bathing in purple
rain;
to
adore a sign, as to drill as hapless, the omen’s cave. I fawn in jest, as one
to fawn, while years were speaking; in which was pain, to restructure light,
this effulgent rhythm; as added to chaos, this fearless love, the caprice of
our moments; to wither as roses, for something helpless, pulled by cords this
mischief.
I’ll
let it go, as one born this heart, to feign to self this reach; for rain is
purple, but love isn’t—as royal as a purple dove; to chime with self, a
thousand thoughts an hour, ever to cadge oneself; whereat is want, as created through
thunder, the beauty of love driven; to hope for us, this myth of a dream, to
burgeon as a nightmare.
