To
come to terms, this turn of cheeks, a bit too humble while sinning; as such by
thoughts, a rash as testimony, plus, a number of superstitions: this walk with
demons; this plank in eyes; our gravel as possessing senses; where mother
yearns, as time has destroyed—this skyglass of souls; to travel while seated,
this daughter as jewel, where temperaments dictate our tranquility. It must be
rich, this deep cerebrum, as courting precious balance. I hear thoughts at
seconds: I see hearts at moments: I’m drifting through frontal lobes—to bleed
music, aside a dinosaur, running through marshy fields—to see this face, as
alive with vigor, accustomed to transcension; this arch in souls, trekking
through caves, our names stitched in ghosts—to float afar, as standing near,
equipped by fate that staircase; as suited in texture, webbed to wings, too
brave to forfeit our futures: this grave for some; our minds spinning diamonds;
this flood as spawning an ark. I love a swan, while concerned deeply—this
wealth of psychical activity—where birds are messages, as squirrels carry keys,
while music shifts emotions; that second in time, to discolor our days, while
preparing to divulge a sorrowful secret; so be gentle with life, protect that
precious soul, as needed take precautions; for life is moving, a host of
decisions, where wisdom behooves our profit value; as less to chance, while
constructing lights, otherwise, as one found morbid: this study of shadows; or
more to literature; as confounded by human behavior; as unto self, that more to
others, reading into that treatment of self. We know for strictness, this wave
of love, for many realize those rites of passages: as wild parties; or moments
of intimacy; or liquor associated with drugs; to guard with force, this wealth
of beauty, as it realizes inner worth.
I
know your heart, as piercing souls, a magnet in its design—to carry
perfections, while peering at glamour, to desire Cinderella’s gown; this ache
through souls, while sorting through trinkets, wrestling with private thoughts;
to confide in few, a crush as eternity, a friend as a confidant: this wealth of
passions, as stitched in antiquity, the genealogy of those feelings; as wanting
adulthood, but ill-prepared, where days could shift to madness. Its drums to
souls, cymbals to brains, pianos to loins; while mother watches, in deep
retrospection, at times a bit clairvoyant; where this is love, as threaded in
mountains, this climb to paint a perfect portrait. We love a swan, as time
sickles hearts, where daughters crave privacy; as coming of age, while going
through changes, this vest of hormones: that loud scream; that sudden sadness;
that elation by gesture of a mere fact; to float through chants, as one for
life, where siblings mimic behavior. I hear as souls, this craving of souls,
while deep those trenches; that pit of emotions, while deep in trance, as eyes
roll backwards; as knowing that center, as never to speak it, while to wonder
of certain procedures; but love is you, this precious arc, while filled with
hummingbirds: if time be gentle, this space in souls, as imparted to destiny—our
favorite feature, our turquoise sky, our measures through valleys while singing;
to pluck a rose, or paint a tulip, while slicing eternity.
