It’s Good this Light

You’re a motif, this sulfur’d adventure, this candescent article; so heated by love, at times a bit bored, but ever in-love. We channel hearts, at aches this pain, to climax in agony; this sex about minds, fleeing through meditations, this mindful trauma. I adored such eyes, that cautious glance, at once, his patience; to sculpt a mural, through pure deduction, this place his woes his spark. It becomes pain, this fervent chasm, where such is glory. I must explain: We yearn with texture, as to lose with guidance—this thing becomes an outlet; to fusion prose, this welkin ache, as digging deeply; while leaping that edge, to find this soul, this well of miracles. I love a star, including a swan, at essence, that motion of arts; whereat, are psychs, while spread so thinly, attempting to trim brains: that far our souls—stranded about stations, in needs those paws of light. I must digress, thankful your heart, a man by zeal that zest—at deep retreats, pulling as to pave—this feeling of prose.  We had to live, threshed through passions, this needs to bleed existence; that funeral dance, as proud to perish, awaiting resurrection; that inner valve, seeping into mystery, this catch by phrase that name; to live as torn, born to love, this inner enthusiasm.  I saw us dying, with needs to retire, at once, a product of chaos; but there’s a secret, to dealing at arm’s length—this platonic wing; as sought to feel, this outer texture, as a docile genius. It becomes hectic, but even complaisant, as to attribute something positive; but listen to hearts, to find that space, where passivity is needed. I’ll tell you light—this leveled adventure, peering at tangible articles; to envision names, those lacking letters, as to kiss those caves: this inner dramatic; that outer traumatic; that call for peace your aura; indeed, that light, sketched by design, this place of width our breaths.  We had to feel, as borne this path, our journeys coinciding; to see for patience, this thing of thoughts, as walked by fingers; to vet a soul, as one distraught, but filled with wisdom; to ask of math, that inner algorithm, steeped in metaphysics.