I sense it, Love—this blue velvet vest, as vicious in parts; a bit
unknowingly, this underground tinge, our terrors as torments—this knowledge
knowing kingdoms; but more to flavor, this love for souls, as gracious as a
swan’s testaments; to capture a gaze, that deep in chants, this miracle by arts
of concentration; to feel it beating, while doves afloat, to feed a flock of
geese. I love your heart, to beat as drums, floored to ceilings; as crawling
out, to conquer skies, this light a sky-mystic; as skiing forward—(this
mystic-wiccan), too charged to settle for less. We’ve died in errors, to sort
through falls, as more than ready to stipple our futures: this task as vast,
this vest as large—this villain as a humble man; to dance forever, punished by (ancient)
sins, at transgression to cross this wilderness; this floating cloud, as cyan
torches, afforded by nature this genius slant. I heard a voice, pulling for
literature, as refusing to perish. I saw a gem, afforded delicacies, waltzing
through midair…as seeking to fires, as searching for storms, our mothers a bit
complicated; to measure this mountain, while sawing chaos, to flourish as
Veterinarians—or more as playwrights, this stage of poetry, a bit too sore the
fainted heart!; as living forever, immortalized in scriptures, as falling
through bodies that spirit: a field of tangerines; a vest of purple plums; this
nectar as pure that Buddhist slant; to have that vision, upon native sand, as
to alter intentions. It could be life, nibbling a nectarine, staring at an
orange forest; but these are minds, this deep revelation, as one so young to
have it: that affectation; that pure affinity; those lyrics streaming into
consciousness; as born with music, that infant’s cradle, as one so smart for
gifted; to know this thing, through pure genetics, our families stressing
perfection. It should be life, our hearts at rhythms, as mere arts pushing
diamonds—to become this thing, a bit too powerful, as hiding in crowded
seclusions. I love your mind, as geared for destiny, running as to achieve our
meadows; this dark course, as fettled by lights, while surging through
dimensions; to see Forever, this
force with wings, singing the death of doubts. It must be true, from fantasies
to islands, where love-blossoms forge a miracle; those thoughts of ballet, that
inner piano, that orchestra raging through ear-prints; to see this heart, as
thumping into cities, to know your face. I could be lost, but why for art, when
love is brimming such sweetness: that spirit-kiss, those heightened levels,
those books beaming in glories; to see affection, lingering in shadows, to be a
friend when waves are crucial; for this is life, this thing of love, as
permanent as Christ.
