A Cave within a Dream

I remember books—the likes of looks—a world within a maze. I remember anguish, plus, a teary eyed scream, embedded in a starry gaze; but ponder the good times, enlove with pistons, where an engine revs in sorrow; for I remember a sullen stare, a coquettish charm—an impartial agenda. I remember—holiness, awakened in a storm—a furnace of Holy Ghost arms. I remember a mystic, this reach for clouds, at a distance with eating. I remember love—so full the third week—a centaur of appreciation; to remember as death, this kef for bleeding, alert to a repeated cycle; as ringing ears, or a belly full of flies—the cries of a thousand ages; wherefore, are roots, steeped in a fair goodbye, whereto, another, visits a treasured restaurant; and still for love, this measured keepsake, enlove with so much damage; as dying to give—this hope of dreams, running from a Cheese Cake Factory.

I twist with turns, involved in happiness, the likes of a metaphor; where heaven began, and coffee was liquor—this woman too far to scramble; where hell im-birthed, a city of wolves, as dying to create the opus of Rome; so more to remember, this fragrant jeer, if but a moment to court; and god heard, three tiers afar, where mystic was merely a breath; as stars to dreams, and glens to tears, alive a fragment of particles; but it couldn’t be real, to never chance a face—so fully enlove; and it couldn’t be life, this passion of monsters, as a cave within such glory; to swim in magic, this tragic affair, as one so dearly aloof.