Our Dear Amore

I met her in dreams, the eyes of chandeliers, ever pointing downward; as to frown at clichés, the torment of atheism, as a heart searing souls. I wondered about friendship, this more suited than love,—of more value than words. I thought about daughters, this essence to yearn, as seated in prose. We conversed—this life, this un-lively body, this figment of intoxication. The days would churn, as one searching the city—this internal chase; to measure her soul—such words of death, where few clench the mark.  I’m writing with articles, dumbfounded by verbs, at war to find a charming noun; this thing of roses, that trite virtue, while friends are more creative; this monument—this temple of passions—ever at a lose to confide—in something so vicious, to win her woes, as she ponders about wellness: our enchanted lot—scrambled with green onions, tortured by silent madness; those extra words, that faint disdain, those hours judging one’s place. We perish at moments, to find vulnerability, at odds to convey that feeling; this thing about joys, scented with sorrows, at once this thing of brilliance; to have this friend, of more worth than love, where honesty is cruel; those poignant words, that season of raptures, as one dedicated to seconds; where motion is rapid, as airborne waves, this tension percolating passions; while dying in segments, this furious growth, at once a complicated soul; to want for endless, this romantic chill, at tears to mention this silent tug. Such are foundations, riddled in love, at torments this companionship; while days would churn—such magical drums, beating with integrity; to wonder about souls, this deep commitment, that furrow of eyebrows. I thought about friends, trekking the sewers, while building a cistern; to know for purity, that enchanting song, while composing a poem; this thing about life, those centered crevices, at once a mental masterpiece; while days would churn, to meet with decisions, as two embark upon that journey.