Conflicted this soul, born to flit and fly, streaming
through yester-nights; a bit eager for peace, staring at starlight, confounded
by mere gestures. While a youngster, this immortal life, he sang a song; where
graves responded, these unsung motives, searching for a parent figure. We
flicker a keel, to unhinge a boat, while singing, I love you. Oh for spirit gusts, filtered in visitations, sparred
by dusky whispers; to knit upstream, discolored by algae, flitting through a
mystic burst. He knew for motive, as a bit too wise, as to shadow his very
faults; where mother was dying, a contracted disease, while a visitor took her
life; this fatal cry, stranded on codeines, to overload a liver. He knew not
the weather, this garb of shame, and felt to core a wretched halo; to change an
instance, this love for dolor, whisking a wistful prose; while daylight broke,
to pause a soul, as to greet a rising sun; but oh for buildings, as to eclipse
wisdom, where we siphon our peace. We love to gambol, to bounce back excitedly,
where years take hold on resilience; while sipping too much, this thirst for
water, as to invent a lying countenance; so he knows for lies, flitting through
sweltering heat, smelted and refined; to have that second, where eyes roll
backwards, and nectar was never so sweat. It’s zeal for love, those gravid
times, as filled with contemplation; to long for something, akin to love—the
mornings filled with charades; but oh to be normal, to cry as a soldier, and
received by a human. It couldn’t be real, in this self-conscious world, this
melodic tinge; as filled with gravity, gripping a trumpet blast, pictured in a
lovelock; but oh so gray, our earth of twines, and winsome for but a moment. He
tried for perfect, to outsoar humans, climbing for want of success; to know for
failures, and firebrand riots, stressed as afire this love.
