Wild Berry

I’ve found us, as desperate souls, clenching this inner wish; where hell is feathers, as wealth is joy, where inner trauma flees—this valley of deaths, our caves as screeching, this world her maze of years. We knew for kisses, that casual affair, morphing into magic: those silent cries; that haunting arch; our brooms filled with dreams; as Love would laugh, that mythic giggle, while daughters strew crimson petals; this lavish her heart, as pagan as antiquity, as Roman as human gods; this treasure of seas, in love our waves, to grieve our Father’s legacy; as rich in justice, but forbidden to touch, while trespassing Divine Lights; that heart that grows, through volts that friction, as to ignite this welkin feeling—that deep intensity, as pure infusion, pouring into a kingdom of goddesses. I’ve found us, as patient as disgusted—forever that want for gems; grounded in such mercy, while to outwit our dreams—this mirror screaming for us to awaken. Our sun is crawling, seeping into darkness, such as a trope for our fallen nature: this watchful eye, as to see nothing, where anger is but a ruse; this fiction of souls—that favored temperament, where obvious becomes mere illusion. I’ve found us dying, alone this office, a car filled with grieving; that blurry time, that medieval cry, those wings trimmed for terrors; as Love becomes mystic, this shooting arc, striking an inner cavity; as alarming life, while Lana sings—this soul raging for oceans; that bridled affair, searching midair rain, as wrenching this umbrella for, Love; that roaring aura, as running through meadows, pouring blueberry tears; to picture one sign, a figment of mind, as to decide upon eternity: it’s mere a mirror, as falling for self—this furious realization; as she asks: "Where is that first one?"