there’s beautiful, and then there’s you.
we awaken dreams, this sapphire feeling, gilt in romance; to have but seconds, the courage of joy, gazing at turquoise eyes; whereto, is passion, this skyward kettle, aflame at daybreak. I miss the sun, this sphinx and riddle—our hearts a mini-carnival; to have but seconds, the courage of pain, as dancing upon an axis; this inner pendulum, filled with opaque feelings, as to wrestle for clarity. I saw an awning—this beautiful woman, as was born through seconds; to vet a crystal, as to measure its worth, that closer to no-where; not as mere knowing, but this fraction of doings, that further our reality. I need perception, as one measured by life, as one filled with helium; to have but seconds, as winning her favor—this thing of dreams. there’s feyic beauty, this outer rose-parade, this inner eclipse; wherewith, are joys, the scars of such seconds, where pain is wistful thoughts. I’m moved to love, this awful penchant—the awe of visceral screams; as lost for time, barely aloof, and rendered as folly…to cape this woman, in a cloak of fey, where it’s not her span. I couldn’t cry, thereby, was reaching, afraid to utter illusions; if this be life, a cabinet of stars, a bottle of claret grains; to have but seconds, this second impression, adjudged through the pith of anger; hereto, are battles, where age takes precedence, this woman groaning softly. there’s a galloping pressure, as counted a million leaves, as multiple seconds of presence. I have her nearby, where fever is but ashes, and fires are but fancies; to wonder of location, the origin of flames, to have but a second of sensations. I mourn in isolation—this esoteric yelping, as filled with existential angst; whereby, is irony, for one of rough coldness, for one of iron edges; so more for warmth, as to outwit paradox, or more important, to outwit self; where beauty is perception—this of dreams, for beauty stands of its own merits.
we awaken dreams, this sapphire feeling, gilt in romance; to have but seconds, the courage of joy, gazing at turquoise eyes; whereto, is passion, this skyward kettle, aflame at daybreak. I miss the sun, this sphinx and riddle—our hearts a mini-carnival; to have but seconds, the courage of pain, as dancing upon an axis; this inner pendulum, filled with opaque feelings, as to wrestle for clarity. I saw an awning—this beautiful woman, as was born through seconds; to vet a crystal, as to measure its worth, that closer to no-where; not as mere knowing, but this fraction of doings, that further our reality. I need perception, as one measured by life, as one filled with helium; to have but seconds, as winning her favor—this thing of dreams. there’s feyic beauty, this outer rose-parade, this inner eclipse; wherewith, are joys, the scars of such seconds, where pain is wistful thoughts. I’m moved to love, this awful penchant—the awe of visceral screams; as lost for time, barely aloof, and rendered as folly…to cape this woman, in a cloak of fey, where it’s not her span. I couldn’t cry, thereby, was reaching, afraid to utter illusions; if this be life, a cabinet of stars, a bottle of claret grains; to have but seconds, this second impression, adjudged through the pith of anger; hereto, are battles, where age takes precedence, this woman groaning softly. there’s a galloping pressure, as counted a million leaves, as multiple seconds of presence. I have her nearby, where fever is but ashes, and fires are but fancies; to wonder of location, the origin of flames, to have but a second of sensations. I mourn in isolation—this esoteric yelping, as filled with existential angst; whereby, is irony, for one of rough coldness, for one of iron edges; so more for warmth, as to outwit paradox, or more important, to outwit self; where beauty is perception—this of dreams, for beauty stands of its own merits.
