There’s
a gray-blue sky, where thoughts meander, as birds picture perfectly. It’s the
patience of peace, therewith, a cigar, questioning this inner person. There’s a
welkin smile, for plucking dreams, where a heart becomes a furnace. Our future
becomes hopeful, as notwithstanding our pain—this moment in our cultured eyes.
Nature is opera, this screaming aria, this faint quartet: as pleasure becomes
mercy, while tortures subside, to awaken this inward vision; as watching
pixels—form our rebirths, this picture painted perfectly. I return to sirens,
this heady forest, carving our names; wherewith, is passion, a tree as symbol,
this cave of rainbows; hereto, a thesis, that far away dream, to retrieve what
he never treasured: this inward scar, these stippled wounds, to awaken like
nothing’s wrong; but art be fair, this probing beauty—this vagueness of death;
as permeated with pressures, this gorgeous tragedy, sketching a grackle; as to
snatch a word, his inner forest, pictured for souls to see. There’s a gray-blue
sky, where mother treks—a feature in his mirror; to know for rapture, this
silent purgatory, praying for opened eyes; for we must to hear, as we must to
see, our acrobatic spirits; for this is life, this thrumming flux, this
Socratic inquiry; to live as children, as fully mature, praying for a touch of
coddling; but there’s a gray sun, depicted in paradox, as so favored to feel
anguish. It’s a probing secret, whittled in studies, as close to light’s
darkness. This pigeon is watching, hereby, deciding, if humans are trustworthy:
I captured a dream, to melt in
rains, our season a mudslide; to morph with joy, this fleeting friend, as
flirtatious as innocence. We scream for mercy, to achieve this boon, a room
filled with ghosts. It mustn’t be, this power of song, this brain of
playwrights—ever this stage, as pictured by Shakespeare, our dose of tragedies;
where love is hard, our tales of variety, to spin through coffins; as finding a
hand, to undig our graves, where love sings at sorrow. It’s ever this bliss, where
a mood shifts—so our battle is multivalent; this peaceful dream, sheltered by
champagne—in earnest this moment!
