I
drift to find you; this marvelous swan; as one enchanted deeply; and ever by
this life, where attractions are new, adventures are sacred—this life of
treasures.
I
remember folly, as one jettisoned, for all failed perfection; this imperfect
essence, searching for perfection—this stranger of mirrors.
This
path of faith, this human condition—this conundrum!
I
must confess; for love haunts this heart—where today is life, this immeasurable
love.
We
shelter secrets, to watch them unfold, to measure adequacies; wherewith, are
lies, as vetted impure, but supporting decisions. It’s sheer paradox, as to
protect the youth, where ethics frown upon deeds. We screech and squirm,
searching for exits, content with overcast; but this is pain, where crystals
fetter, as to clog the horizon. I see us hellbound, wherefore, a furious soul,
wailing the injustice; but this is angst, this mental nausea, compelling chaos.
Our dreams are pure, though flooded with ingratiation, wherefore, views are
skewed neatly. I can’t but drift—to moments of gray, whereto, truth was
present; but how to arrive, as knowing arrival, where perception is personal. I
loved a dream, uncertain of dreams, as to manufacture dreams. It couldn’t be
felt, for it never existed, albeit, it lived: those inner cries, those prosaic
fires, as one giving through prayers. I know a venture, as rooted deeply, as to
master this art; but this is gray, for passion is fever, and known to go
astray; where chaos is attraction, this want to heal, albeit, from a distance;
as to wrestle self, deeply distraught, searching for a moment of peace. I knew
but a name, peering at camouflage, this image struggling for breath. I heard
but a sound, a subconscious sound, and sutured a sound; where stitches came
loose, and dreams unraveled, and a ghost scribbled her image. Our tides float
to seas; our rivers are jammed; and thus, our caves are rinsed of secrets;
herewith, are passions, leaking into public, as spoken through our contours.
Something is living, as dying for expression, this marvelous noun; to have but
seconds, adrift an inner tension, to rest at crossroads; where love is vacant,
and love is pure, a household of dreams.
