I couldn’t be perfect, as using I too often, while parasailing this love; to have that fixture,
buried in soil, to arise as a golden knight. I love us dancing, filled with
innuendos, strapping a white horse; as course as magic, this gravid affect, a
mind filled with termites; while chanting amore, this turtle as a soul,
arriving a second too late; to see this woman, the love of this land, peering
through a rearview. Its life this death, stationed at a river, pouring into a
lagoon; but why so wise, this grimace of stares, while glaring at a mourning
wife. We know for stars, this aching drum—so pulled together; to keep it
perfect, this vest of feelings, as dying for that last tug. I bit her deeply,
as wanted to love, as it lived but a moment; for others perished, to touch a
soul, while egos grew in torture. It’s that first goodbye, embedded in jewels,
to conquer that fluid tryst. I speak of wars, straddled in torments, while
waxing eloquently. It’s sheer for shame, this gravid angst, as needed to
succeed: that terror of tensions; that faraway nearness—whereat, are mother’s
tears; that smelted life, that torn addiction, that reason to perish thrice. I
know a woman, trickling through hells, afraid to reach forward: the woes of
men; that tress of women; that far too distant nearness. I came to conquer, a
beast of nature, our words as ethical as spies; while tears churned—as a Congo
myth—our brethren dying through morals. It mustn’t be life—this faint
attraction, to something so coldly gray; but hearts are bold, as chasing winds,
to embrace a living mirage: this furious woman, as engraved in psyches, longing
for that frantic touch: that manic of fears; this paranoid fool; while
sculpting reasons for such terrors. I found us drifting—this want to notice, if
only to nigh his brains; indeed, the passion, as laughing maniacally, suited
for a straightjacket; but love is gray, this pressure of times, cringing while
receiving mirrors.
