Greetings,
Love: our tempo to galaxies; our souls to seeking; our measurements divine:
where faces glisten, at textures our arts, pitted in fiery concentration: to
move as snails, at wings such love, fleeing into angelic flames. I remember
palms, so delicate our music, becoming a swanic lady; those silent gamut(s), as
endued by cherubs, at length our pith that wails: our sodden seconds; our
rattling bones; such by knitted opus: to sing by rivers, or merge through
gardens, feeling by aches our pangs: our welkin growth, as spurting through
dimensions, again by palms something gentle; that signet star, aflame our
cultures, a bit misty through foggy acres—that trek by trails, embedded in
shadows, disguised in such glorious joys: our vehicles to mystery, as revving
enchantments, twisted insignia our treasures; as years groan, our wandering
islands, our summit a negligent opera—to witness tragedy, as living its legacy,
a sore more rounded than naivety: that dark intuition; our hearts beating
ecstasies; our veils rooted in cement—that static chime, that inrush of
symbols, our ember at such splendors; to beat eternal, our nectar to heaven,
our gravity inverted—that upward wind, tapping to touché, cloven at sullen
aches. We bathe in magic, our arts so weary, as shifting through experience; to
rev by brains, graven by hearts, our stream as mystical. We love as miracles,
flushed by eternity, at wills our
thoughts as screaming; to witness thunder, that second in time, where brains
merged with emptiness: that blank infusion; our temples void; our debts erased
through justice: those cultic eyes; that picture of essence; our physical
definitions. (It comes to life, this joy your name, this pain our trail; as
living cultures, a halo as an anchor, as orison derives from souls; that inner
zeal, while born to arcs, sitting, pitted in sentiments: our relished scarves,
our immortal handkerchiefs, our melody atop our cries; where love is richness,
an inner rapture, to imagine your smile: our reaching words; our mothers’
hearts; our intentions going awry: if but to live, a flower to a vase, our
petals pruned; that typical fervor, as heated adrift, where flames become
intrusive: our cabinet souls, our taste of justice, our crushing impacts—where
snails morph, into feverish giants, indebted to illumination); indeed, a
daughter, running through vineyards, reading literature; as more to yearn,
while more to capture, floating through tenderness; our treasured affections,
as wresting devotion, at tales such contradiction: our wailing developments;
our psychic religions, those tugging light-sockets; to know your heart, that
cryptic museum, at treasures to utter, “I love you.”
