It
mustn’t be—this empirical love—fostered and forged forevermore; as less a dungeon,
and more a fire—this mystical woman; to want for nothing, aside for everything,
to have for spirit; as more to perish to feel that beat, as it soars into
music. I love us dancing, to imagine love, as this grand piano; to touch the
keys, floored at keystones, this method—staccato; to drift upon symbols, as
your art flickers gently, this wave of brain-stuff. It’s meta this love, as dearly beyond—the touch of sensuous hands. I
felt a prayer, to know for presence, the essence of your heart; to see us in
song, this liturgy of ruth, as transformed into powers; wherewith, are dreams,
bordered in scars—this dam as furious as a last kiss; where love is law, and
law is fancy, to feel that very selfish. We waltz and fall, as to rise and
waltz, that closer to this third heaven; where this is life, this deadly
enchant—a voice upon a wing; where you never tried, as for being self, to
intrigue the unconscious; for this was folly, where love was law, as engraved
in psyches. I dare to say it, this burning sensation, as filtered through human
souls; to rise in passion, to finally grip love, as something innocuous. It
must be gentle, as an infant’s palm, where we dare not see deception. I want
this life, where humans are infants—in mere design. I ask for much, a man of chess,
tired of pushing pieces. It must be real, a moment in a vacuum, where love is
pure insanity; to have that gift, as blaming for self, the ruin of that gift.
There must be more, aside for sex, and off to that gray land; and there must be
more, than multiple partners, as hoping one sticks around. We want purpose, as known
decisions, to have the one we have chosen. I fathom this lot, to love as an
infant, to cherish mystic prayers; as fallin’ to rise, and rising to fall, this
cycle of love.
