He sings to ecstasy, that particular essence, the Trinity of
his birthstone; while enchanted deeply, this spiritual Xanadu, surging with friction:
a viola trail; this banquet soul; this inner masquerade. He met her joy,
sweltering in angst, this tender aphrodisiac; whereat, is pain, this glorious
bliss, such intimate contradiction. He knows her name, this mystical lamp, this
magical champagne: she dies with pressure, an antenna for Spirit, this
fairytale woman; this uphearted soul, this downhearted mind, this feeling
through which the wilderness bleeds. Be not
afraid, our richest love, for souls are richer blades; to confiscate life, this
wayward paradise, known for literary hindsight; wherewith, are tears, such
sorrows of joy, as a child loving mother; such honeysweet agony, this feeling
of perfection, where years render chaos: that inner piano; that mantra cello;
those eyes squinting through love. He reeks of silence, this mental fireplace,
musing upon voiceprints; while love is agony, this upbeat sound, this crucible
by pleasure; to find her soul, aching with love, as sincere as hurricanes;
whereto, is passion, as how to let go, while living as witness; to an inner
tornado, such joys of nothingness, echoed in a trumpet blast; this grand
confusion, as to draw us near, cradled in rainstorms. He met her pain, this
evermore feeling, where two would grow to cherish; that heartfelt tear,
embedded in bliss, as to wrestle a blackthorn; while time wages war, as
sentiments grow boldly—this spellbound infusion.
