I
feared love; its responsibility; its alienation; while hiking upon high,
spinning through loneness, etching such intimacy: those acrobatics; that
trapeze art; those miracles at moments our trembles.
We seek credence, aloft our ideals, at
castles our pampered souls: that bold kiss or that taste such sweat, laughing
while acting giddy: those jiffy responses; that inner resonance; our hearts at
butterflies. I would to cry—our pantomime souls, becoming so intricate—at
turns, so jaded, this thing about innocence, as to have scolded our mirrors:
those captive feelings; those rich sensations; those thoughts as becoming
dual—while dueling with life, our songs so private, our cadence a fabulous
ritual; to live as mystics, our bodies resonating, while to share souls: that
cello of love; that flute of agreements; those tides as lunar our remarkable
rhythms: that treasured feeling; those rich debates; our pillows as
shrines! We mature for love; at essence for love; courting our souls for
love: our intelligence waning; our hearts as stenographers; our minds observing
that inner phenomenon: that steep baritone; that growing muscle; our diaries
seeping into our intestines. I adored
love; this thing he feared; for such was nature our blue skies: to dance
through feelings; to chance emotions; to enjoy our pristine youths: that treble
beat; our shrimps with rice; our music so dissimilar: if be it our lives, as
skyglass dungeons, our tears strewing over graves: to muse as angels; this
feeling of love; our arts as mental museums.
We cherish such motion, stressing such terrors, committing by pledges
through fears; to live our legacies, communing through touch, our fantasies
stippled with images; as living forever, as brief our moments, terrified to
lose our love: that bashful closeness; our sultry passions; that sketch as
wands our minds—as admonished souls, at mercy our lives, conditioned by
household woes. I couldn’t reason,
beyond that of beauty, as it carried us so far: that inner helicopter; that
mental rocket; that contour beyond our madness; to kiss as dying; to undress as
living; our hearts to fly.
Years morph into sadness; a man so jaded; a
song without luster: this intricate drum, looking to abandon self, this stream
of observations; to gamble love, as gamboling joys, while hectic that steep
resistance; those cymbals of mischief, accused of dying, while rich that
physical magnet; as courted our eyes, laughing at suspicions, at arts this
craving for affections; to move this way, a pair of jumping-jacks, a bit more
richer with time; as giving less, or giving more, at such deep expectations; to
harness tears, while cleansing hearts, this chorus a yogic star. We’re more to love, falling as rising, our
minds perusing our lives.
