Touch a Feeling

Oh for sapphire eyes, inlaid with diamonds, reaching through souls; that heart-stopping smile, that skipping of beats, that idyllic whiplash; to season amore, an armoire of prose, that apophatic praise—as sudden to break free, drenched in admiration, yearning through tortures that love. It came with rubies, this atypical anguish, while drums stirred something tribal; this fist of flowers, as petals moaned, while ozones cried in agony; for beauty would flinch, a mirror as a ghost, savoring this addict’s touch. We live immortal, faced with change, growing by tumbles to manage our woes: this fervid river; those plush meadows; this thing for physics; as crying such beauty, this scar by rites, this labyrinthine of sensations: broken that moment, clutched in palms, shivering by ghosts: where mother roamed, that place of years, terrorized for beauty: to subjugate life, as to fill that void, this need for control: that magical pain, to feel possessed, as to induce securities—this place as voice, resounding in anger, as father wailed in grief: “We must to flourish, by more control, to lose your eyes to life”: this fabulous star, that curiosity, that urbane language; to entice, Love, staring in awe, this wonder of something foreign; this constant test, at wars with thoughts, pushed through heat this inner space. We love by sights; we love through feelings; we adore for riches; this unfettered warmth, infused by animals, to adore beyond measure. We lured that life, as darkened alleys, treading through beige meadows; while picking thorns, as chasing briers—we came across a cave of algae; as featured images, this glorious figure, that torture of fire our hearts; where eyes roam, to feel intensities, this screeching to halt a train; where love appeared, to awaken a kiss, this bliss by measure our years. It had to be hips; it had to be legs; it had to be seduction; this world of scars, nurtured by kindness, as to imagine those brooks; this space within, screaming for affection, while sitting so casually: those gardenias, plush with burgundies—our souls cyan hells; where thoughts are crucial, while formed through lights, this stepping of porticos forever; as more to perish, this wonderful death—our ways embroidered upon spirits. It had to feel, Love, this cold amore, as made for touch; it had to step life, this field of energies—this mental metaphysics.