While
to flower love, or to deflower pain, we exist as oneness; this frenzy at souls,
our yearly celebration, at arms this visible armor. My sweet amore—at hearts
through grime, our obsession deadly; to capture ladybugs, as to set them free,
a living room of gardens: that second kiss, that morning sweetness, those tides
as crumbled our souls; where pain is venture, as sorrow is joy, that caress by
thought of vulnerabilities; as caramel corn, or raspberry coffee, this art by
misery that lemon pie; as alive by vice, that fix your soul, our wails as
silent voltage; to mention love, this treble beat, our three parts to sea;
where ships are visions, as visions are sailing, while to passion are
songbirds. We cried our youth, seated at wishes, at prayers that very second:
by lights our music, symbols to winds, that delicate return; while losing
seasons, our hearts as drum-sets, chasing through city deserts, to arrive that
trestle of fate: to gaze by chance; to feel those volts; to sit as still as
inner motion. You loved by waves, that
first greeting, as to reappear: swept by sea-breeze; alarmed by attraction; as
snails tiptoeing vibrations. Our
immortal souls, longing that dearness, as to ponder familiarity! My sweet amore, to castles this love, that
place, that pearl, that crying flame; to chance eternal, our vex as soreness,
at circuits to love by destiny: that senseless amore, as left with nothing
amore, while to die as much amore; where eyes are flushed, that glossy
greeting, as possessed by trance-amore.
It must be love, this pattern of minds, at glance to know those
thoughts; that nibbling sensation, those sweet discussions, that falling into
arms; while fire trickles, our boiling spirits, painting petals patiently.
