I’m
afire your thoughts, as craving this ghost, forever lost this cycle; to
puncture a bean bag, while yanking at curtains, if only for oaken eyes; and
tender the grave, an armoire of personalities, and knee-rug bleedings; to
furnish a sentence, the mind of a bookcase, too far close to perish. I couched
a heartbeat, as ten tiers high, gripping upon romance; to love a queen, filled
with ventures, to cater Venus; this brilliant charm, as falling in Rome, as
yearning for Africa; to have at midnight, the volts of Buddhists, kneeling at a
credenza; while hearts to flutter, and cribs to rattle, and wailing at a
game-table. The dice are shaved, sanded through deceit, pictured as a
centerpiece; to
fall
your lap, as crying for death, as clenching a crying torch; for love is mercy,
this loveseat of enchantment, as to tolerate an heartsore. Its mental this
grave, cleaving to insanity, this nightstand of a woman; to squat upon an
ottoman, as this sort of pledge, to vow to this faithful tear; this settee of
diamonds, this basin of joys, this act of validation; as God be heard, trekking
through a vineyard, as merely the sight of footprints; where air is battle, and
fangs are value—the more the measure—of this thing called love, as to forfeit
grace—a soul of tinkling cymbals;
as
born to channel,
through
hells the graves,
as
one shadowed in climaxes; but this is love, this event of charity, where vowels
become a moment of torment; to adore the pressure, this account of heartbeats,
this action found monumental; where demons cry, and omens give gifts, as to
congratulate the risen. We’ve died this night, as an ant upon a cloud, to have
this second of feeling God. It mustn’t be real—as to love this mirage—the
perceptions of a camera; but death be good, to infuse a gem, this woman of a
thousand smiles; and albeit broken, it’s our badge of love—the bait of a
million joys.
