Pastel Grey Clouds

It’s a chilly temple—longing by heaters, to fathom mother’s sacrifice: our ticking clocks, this muse by winds, this trickling of spirits; to pour effusions, this beautiful song, at needs to harden his heart; this pointless task, for affections churn, those years by fuel that pain. We wanted pristine, this gem by brains, this contour by glory; that radiant essence, as if untouched, to enter by chance that death; this fuse by arts, this two person canvas, while longing that short return. It had to be joy, this bliss through energies—our hearts rapid at sea; that inner ocean, flooded by goddesses, to see but one; that pendulum by skies, this desert of aches, to appear by sudden that kiss. I must return, chilly as to frozen, too warm to paint regrets; this daughter of summers, forbidden to sail, for notice of those inclinations; to have by chance, this wealth of wisdom—our mothers guiding fates. I’ve called by hearts, this soothing agony, at ink this wheel of colors; to soon pretend—our colors are rare, that one by chance his soul; that darkened fortress, touched by violins, that palm so small by flowers. I’ve loved by ruins, this ghetto by brains, at once, this Brentwood palace; as never forgotten, those eggs with onions, this sausage so tender that second; to feel at warmth, this sphinxly home, at tears that crimson winter; to paint pretend, as having moments, this woman by nature is Sybil: that haunting laugh; that terror by grins; that woman his mother lost for names. I must return—this celestial heart, at times a friend: that distant soul-thump; that nearby boomerang; that smile that ruptured emotions; to see us broken, that nature of addicts, by arts seeping into recovery; to hear by glance, that midnight song, as both feel a bit awkward; while wonder soars, to have claimed joy, through eyes that box of trinkets. I felt a swan, so pure that grace, as to remember this piece of puzzles. It’s chilly by temples, reaming amore—this cloth so moist by skies; that lost farewell, that too close meaning, that tale through hearts our in-between. I sought for mercy, those reaching psalms—perchance this lake of butterflies; to soon retreat, as running through emotions—this begging sensation; while silent those nights, by fires this mourn, as to paint by feelings this amore. I must return, seeping into space, this ecclesial mentality—as distance his life, pulling at verbs, as to reckon a cave of nouns; that cryptic language, while to find reflection, this heart by chase our gems. It mustn’t be clouds, as to linger our homes, where such beauty evolves; that aching soul, that tender resonance, that affect through souls our feelings; where love is sudden, this walk through beige, as to pause those veins of leaves. Autumn was gentle—this place of tears, composing by fires our temples; this softened storm—our daughters at peace, while never to imagine such sacrifice. I loved by voice, this gust of romance, at earth that era by reigns; this fallen mind, gifted through glances, as pouring forth an infusion; that rapid terror, to grip by force, those elements painted in brains; this mischief by hearts, to pursue such mystery, at times to arrive at prose. It couldn’t be life, this veil of souls, to peek by chance such glory; that inner dialogue, scraping wishes, to find by heart that rejection; to fall so low, while feeling foolish, that fable this frolic of pains; where love ascends, this purple oak, seething for calling into a darkened forest; that space of minds, seated a chilly temple, while feeling for texture those blankets. I love a swan, this dance of cards, to flip by arts an ace: this face of dreams; that sky of screams; so close this elk of riches.