I
see us spinning, at waves about life—so casual about love: this strong fit, as
wanting more, while adjusting through storms: those brown roots; those mahogany
leaves; that diary shared with love; as pondered our meadows, our carefree
gallops that valley fraught with cranberries; where roses speak, that fragrance
of souls, our pulpits amid lagoons: if died a heart, that arc to perish, as
resurrected a tender touch; as much to live, our accordion winds, as fleeing
dragons that burgundy princess: that cadence grieving, as singing amore, while
tortured a torch-beat—that furnace wailing, as sung a river, at chase that pace
of distance: such beauty a star, arising in bloom, as buoyant a subtle sonnet;
where legends blossom, our immortal lakes, as dipped to arise a queen. I see us
grinning, at tears with joy, as parted by seas; that electric light, as
thumping our souls, alive peering at a fortress; as lived a legacy, such
melodic psyches, as cried a furious moon; where symbols maneuver, if but our
minds, to court through waves those fitted wings; as adrift through canyons,
that inner kayaking, that feather by ink such manuscripts; insomuch as love,
our majestic sun, as arising at midnight: that opened treasure-box, those
golden trinkets, that sterling silver: if but a memory, those childhood dreams,
as to manifest such visions: that princely soul; that Highclere castle; that
Wilton House den: if but a daisy, as infused by petals, hugging a myrtle tree.
I see us spinning, laughing by miracles, so far a storm; afloat by eagles, at
clouds with pegs, at art with vengeance; that eternal passion, carving a vase,
tracing such riveting calligraphy; while studying Latin, reading old tomes,
perfecting our understanding: that inner umbrella; that Grecian trestle; those
vines clawing our synthetic fences: if but a dream, we drift through time,
alive this second of comforts; while silent doves, bathing in liturgies,
swarming through Gregorian Chants: those chain-links; that mental fencing; our
hearts at Marshall Arts; as wishing well—upon a dandelion, our mane filled with
leaves; to saunter gently, wasting Gosset, nibbling strawberry cookies; where
raptures dwell, amid our fortune, as torn as logistics.
