Let it be gentle, this mistaken tear, as to uproot concrete;
and let it be life, this shard of souls, while pushing forward. I knew not her
moods, those words flung at clocks, as judging behavior. I knew not about
prejudice, that inner bias, as classifying races. It becomes a model, this
thing of statures, where a person yearns for a cultured friend. I knew not
about love, those abstract years, where skies revealed dreams: that second of
closure; that instant the chains shattered and intimacy feathered wings; that
well of fears, abated by love, as to realize responsibility. I was merely a
child, lost to this nature, while that contemptible: this wealth of fools; that
lurid song; those days occupied by faulty thoughts; as pursuing some measure,
some freakish idea—the pegs of this travesty; while molding graces, this
opposite occurrence—this negative churned into a positive; to nurture that
dream, sculpted by reality, as a present day motif; but what about eyes,
peering into tragedy, as sealed as an object of worship. Such pressure our
wants—our minds teased—by a taste of corruption: such grandeur—this feeling of
queens, as emotions redirected; to fall this castle—the walls of terror,
gripping a silken pillow; this maze of minds, captured by this inkling, covered
in pegs of wilderness; where love is there, as more than clumps of sorrow, this
thing of majesty, as opposed to measures, this if of dreams, catered to by fools. It becomes a thought, this
sprouted petal, which carries a mystic teardrop; that haunted house, as to
receive that treasure, where cache was lost; or more this death, greeted in
heaven, as such a paradox; or more this love, this need for two, where lies
would infect beauty. I know not the tales, while to alter reality, as merely a
soul; and I know not the hells—that wrung the bells, where time cried; so more
this love, as situated afar, as immortalized in scripture.
