It
becomes life, this den of vipers, snips and bites and venom for souls; while to
balance sanity, a few precious friends, piecing together solutions. We mingle
forces, rapt in seasons, as vigil as cheetahs or jaguars, scarred and
uncertain, as vessels of insecurities; to have confidants, trekking through
thickets, as to wrestle phantoms, that tile to mirrors; where mothers glisten,
as pearly queens, afire this cultic love: to guide by kindness; to listen by
virtue; to form a living thesis—this art of love, as fathers knit justice, that
sound reasoning, that surreal instance; to lean by grace, as faced with
hassles, adoring by measures something sacral. We need compassion—our swans as
sponges—our sons as locomotives; to castle as retreating, this photic music, as
boundless as brains: our inner songs, our nightingales—that fragrant upsurge,
to hear for scents, or to laugh for mercy—those intrusive quirks. It should be
love, where humans quarrel, as to gallop through trenches: that rooftop anger;
that naked feeling; that specter by arts a jinn—if sights are low, this deep
confusion, as to ruin social contracts! But yours is wisdom, this third eye
genius, a living vignette—as knitted through love, a palm filled with petals,
as to face leviathan—this sea of souls, our grieving ribcage, our bones
invested in love; as leaves wilt, or footprints become dim—we study through
patience to refurbish; this whale as mental, where times become gentle, as two
friends head to pasture; this life of passions, our wings to clouds, where
gravel is a speck of planks—those instruments, a drumstick to a cymbal, as
reverberating love—to chase through winds, those glens of woes, where pains
serenade wisdom—our daunting tasks, to tackle sorrows, steep in wades of
intuition—where siblings reason, as pure intentions, articulating welts of
life—as love soars, our families as friends, haunted by pure realities. We’re
gazing afar, to settle our souls, feeling by leaps of hearts; to know our
season, jotting flyleaf, scribbling together a memoir; while seeping through
music, or flying through acoustics, our minds as séances; or more astray, those
times of introspection, peering from within our contours: that iron gray; that
bouquet of agitations; our charades as becoming lethal; but more to clarity,
that cascade of justice, our minds knitting mermaids—to see adventures, our
imaginations, engaged in sky-clad dreams; while weeping ash, to siphon through
poisons, leaning by grace.
