Hey Love. The world is spinning, while demons are focused,
this realization of madness. I’ve challenged hearts, while coal burns insanely,
as one favored by tornadoes.
I love you speaking, as torn asunder, as beige as desert
sands. Its no-longer riddles, this kettle of storms, as introduced to a young
swan; to help us revive, a vest of nonchalance, destined for hell.
Be not a fool, my love, a sucker for nice words, where art
was but a cup of coffee; for love is deepest blue, as drenched in velvet
blacks, a lifetime of explanation; to feel this love, for something so
precious, as opposed to a neighborhood fling.
Many have run this trail, afraid to utter the truth, as
giving love so loosely; but many held to heart, to find for love, a father and
a friend; where mother speaks, the fairest of queens, as to alter his mind. Its
sheer presidency, that calls for patience, the jilted as reminiscing.
On to more this love, shattered to rebuild, spaced through
atmospheres; as born to cherish, those moments of lights, cheering this glory.
We want for love, that tender caress, as striving congested; to ingest life,
this furious fever, grounded in falling tears; for this was love, the hells of
pain, to lay heart to the fumes of rain. I grant us peace, this inner serenity,
as calm as a mountain tiger; to strike and kill, as filled with patience, one
frantic for energies; to feel her heart, splashing through clouds, to reign as
chills; these outward feathers, that measure of love, as to realize—He needs a psych! I’m graced with art, to favor this swan,
a metal rounded to perfection; to die our lives, where mother is watching, a
woman misunderstood; but not for me, ever to empathize, as driven the winter
flames. I’ve cried to love us, knee-deep in prayer, pleading for mercy; to hear
for truths, as this compatible grace, as pushing for this future. Is he
heartless, to hold us accountable, despite the many excuses? I beg to differ,
slighted by thoughts, while birds chirp in his window. The nights were
love—forever the Brownings, as one learning from Maya; to hold this hand, as
invisible as pain, as to locate a center; where such was found, as to love this
flame, his mother a prime example; so tell her life, this inner charm, this
broken bracelet. I talk to ghosts, flavored in fevers, and favored in fury; to
love her soul, this falling thesis; to see us chime, as two for daisies, this
art for a screaming soul. I love us!
