Hey
Love—this deep enchantment, this river of rainbows—as peering at meadows, that
cavalier stance, inhaling rose petals; to advents kosher, this planet of maybes, as cordial as darkness; this
pagan soul, this Jewish Retreat, that inner Cabala—to see as wolves, as casual
as rabbits, while lions roam our psyches; where love is patent, as born
innately, this vehicle of torments; to chance survival, this minutia war, at
course to sing of raspberries: that glorious vessel, as adorned in lights,
those outer goosebumps. We praise the swan, as something delicate, while at
heart a vicious spirit; to change by arts, this lance to souls, while our
worlds fall enlove. It could be madness, or more this cycle, at tears our swan
is singing; this solo pianist, as treasured a scar, while born of frantic
flames; to cut through darkness, this glimmer of lightning, this bolt tearing
through chimneys: that deep smaze; this fluid soot; this rainbow of lights—as
piercing in segments, at sudden this glisten, to arrive as something primal: that
furious fever; that electric thunder; this person within screaming for mercy;
to come so close, as to lose that feeling, where archers afloat upon quicksand;
to wonder of deaths, this breath of cadence, to have lived a mere soul. It
could be fiction, as estranged from birth, as to wrangle with illusions; but
questions remain, for one familiar, where said phenomena is factual; but more
this chantress, this maestro of symphonies—our bedlights defused; to awash a
fever, sitting in radiance—our visions a bit blurry; wherewith, this embedded
opera, flushed in tears—that angelic candle; to poke at breath, or channel
affections, while whispering for more insights: this agog feeling; this deep
torment; this vibrant ember; to sing by hearts, at total stillness, a magnitude
of activities. We envy the swan; our inmost love; as one of unveiled beauty:
that rich convergence, that cryptic rapture, this fatigue by mere presence; to
torture time, this cautious justice, as florid as feral fiction—where souls
perish, as born to silence, while listening to a myriad of woes: that fulcrum
of treasures, if courted by brains—our fable as featured in cinemas. We adore
the swan, this thunder of ballads, where poets have given leg and limb; if but
a glance, to chance this heart, adjusted by edges of insanity; as picklock’d
deeply, arriving at this visceral feeling, at currency this richer existence:
this swan by science, this study of behaviors, to garnish our souls with
colors: if be it this life, this living ache, camouflage in aesthetics—afloat
this dungeon of insights: those temblor kibitz, as deep epiphanies, while to
discern this measure of fey—where souls flourish, as first to cherish, this
deception of deaths: our bond as treasured, where love is sighted, our richest
insights!
