We
love the swan, as deeply captivated, to give her magic. It’s
a
mystic love, an umbrella’s glove, to chisel her future; for such
the
jejune, as meaning naïve, to culture the inner omen. We
mourn
the outcome, a broken sanctuary, for the world is vicious;
so
more the passion, to shelter eyes, at once a nightmare; but
symbol
as soul, a torch to voyage, and maintain innocence; for
many
love, through sore and squall, the surface as substance. Oh
the
claim, as hidden a koan, a talisman as a psyche. Look within,
my
gray-hearted tear, to see a reflection. It’s even self, a diamond
as
a soul, a rose as a mind-beat; to flourish and fly, the relic of
inwardness—that
infinite chase; for sudden the growth, a mirror
as
a stranger, a kingdom rising. Oh the chameleon—and forced to
play—this
game of charades—and nearly bled, to finally dance, as
a
swan in theater. It’s a Venus soul, as deeply enchanted, to morph
into
a galaxy—where pain is mission, the power of volts, to alter an
outcome;
and oh a caveat: for one prepares, and another flashes, to
remove
the unwanted; where this is life, the tears of twilight, the
halls
of inner prisons.
