Snatched by Beauty

I’m moved deeply, adjusted to wisdom, while steep this enchant; that imperfect love, addicted to sensations, as cold as southern winds: this inner miracle, to hold a tress, as to inhale beauty; this sensual woman, as dying to live, at tensions this mother within; to cry for wilderness, so close an attic, that needs for tugs—that needs for pulls; where death would mourn, those flowery wings, a bit for blatant seduction: that gap for thighs; knees pressed together; those slender arms: that portrait face; those palatial eyes; that gracile back: those twin gazelles; that flowing mane; that pasty aroma; as wafting afar, to drag a soul—that poet’s tongue. I’ve died analysis, as sick as northern rules, confined to my quarters; as musing gently, afraid to feel, shoving keyboards aside; this fabulous ruse, as parts would tingle, while to refuse such normal thoughts; this mystic high, to peruse a soul, at needs to perform as saints; this inner curse, for one so raw, those days at chase from laws; to court my mind, to see for legends, this inner contemporary. I felt a heart, to bring for minds—this woman to reach; as enchanted sorely, this miracle shower, at once, this return of senses; to sit my soul, that lake of fires, to remember our lose: that fantastic mercy; that conspicuous charm; those volts screaming my loins; to know for wisdom, while darkness roams, as for kisses that bliss for broken; those personal dreams, painted as pictures, to know so much that distance; as pleased dearly, for touch ruins, this space in souls as perfect; as mind verses reach, this inner dejection, as to stipple a shrine; that mythical woman, at beats that flesh, as warm that fervor; to again return, adrift this maze, while frantic that inking feeling; to tat a pentagram, aside a Jesus piece, stranded that bay of affections: this fatal sin, to win that soul, as pulled so close to home; to have that myth, this man for dying, aloof that last neck bite.