Oh
the iridescence, this color of personality, as gorgeous as newborns; to laugh
the cries, as hermetic as love, a river of dusty bodies. The calm settles—into
foreign pictures, fraught with solicitudes; to claim for perfect, this
imperfect nature, for tarrying at water-springs. We die for honor, even
something angelic, as temperate as illusions; to furnace through feral dreams,
the wrench of this passion; where bolts sprang lose, for the moment enchants,
streaming for something chaste; for oh this web, as radiant as newborn cheeks,
to define our ridged caves. It’s grand the moment, where tacks embrace
memories, as purple as expectations; to see it float, this rhythm called love,
the carpet of her mind. It couldn’t be real, the bars of prisons, enlove with this
concept; to perish through birth, through picturesque scenes, as pensive as,
Shakespeare. We see us more, as distant friends, afloat a private nightmare; to
alight the trauma, agaze with love, the hue of something we crave; but this is
webs, as cautious as evermore, pushing
passed the turmoil; to die this volt, a painting on a psyche, to ignite a
hearse of spasms. We love for flavor, if only a short time, to give candescent
waves; the floors of space—as therapeutic gems, churning through palatial eyes.
Where was love, to finally break free, a feeling left whet—where all is hell, a
debate in self, as effulgent as sinning vows; to puncture souls, as kadupul
flowers, to ignore the vividness; in which is gladness, the fractures of
sorrow, to sing as one unsung; for this is measure, some type of pudding, to
partake of broken dreams; but this is fever, a web of lies, as cautious as an
open safe; where this is hearts, a banister upon clouds, an immortal orchestra.
