Teardrop Passion

There are opera eyes, gazing through fire, aloft a windstorm; wherewith, are rubies, a cherished soul, as is our agony; this roadmap astray, this grapevine love, as art through pavement. There’s concrete privacy, as to augment fires, that lonely a lounge chair. There’s an abstract fever, where sutures merit graves, gazing upon beauty. There’s Bugatti passion, founded in cherry glades, spawned through quartz of dreams. There’s majesty through lips, a clarinet heartbeat, a blue bird’s agony. It couldn’t be fate, this emerald wound, satiated through time; to touch at first glance, something so casual, racing as a roadrunner; whereby, is terror, this measure of dying love, as feigned by gemstones. It couldn’t be real, this trenchant intuition, poking at floating images; whereat, are dreams, those symbols of anguish, pacified by a trance.

How to measure grace, where beauty is treasure—our visions an outer garment! We tend towards death, this ballad of verses, a viola of mind-tones; as fretting in souls, this rhythm rising, enchanted by cryptic storms. There’s aria pain, this palm of petals, pushing passed pavement; as buried in time, as cloaked in madness, a tear founded in approval. There’s daybreak love, sprinkled with spurts of running, this seismic tragedy; wherewith, is laughter, this agile temper, this inner discovery; to have but lights, this fusion of passions, reaching at a violet sky.