…we
chance a prize, milking ink pens, hustling white paper: this clove with coffee,
this midday steak, or something too gentle and abrasive: our hawking brains,
our fragmented portraits, our hounds sitting peacefully: at miracle literature,
appraising remarks, and sinking into realities: that inner cadence, this inner
whisper, to fret over meaning: this life of wings, this coupe of damages, at
polite interactions: if but to reason, (as speaking to self), we realize it
can’t be fair: our antennas are wired in pits, and morals are a chase, and ethics
cause conflict: wherefore, we level our grounds, we fret over proprieties, we
side with our best interests: but more to beauty, and more to comforts, our
aesthetic existence: those remarkable faces, our inner spasms, our
encroachments: if but that feeling, that first inclination, those soothing
rewards: at delicate arms, or oiled elbows, or perfectly hanging mane: our
nights reminiscing, our morning daydreams, or better, our futuristic hopes: to
sing opera, to shower at pace, or to dine fretting calories: while back to
insistence, this miracle wheel, where reality seems imperfect….
…we
chance a miracle, we breach the winds, we create existence—as full
participants, or lazy souls, while nudged by dear friends: those hovering
skies, our turquoise instincts, our opalescent infatuations: those impartial
dreams, fumigated by partial cries, if but this luxury wilderness: our souls
peeking, at demanding lists, our minds becoming mosaic fires: if but to
symphony, as daily affairs, at deep wonders, those trenchant offshoots: such
sad meditation, such creative genius, again, pausing for a clove….
…we
ignite feelings, moved by listening, or casually indecisive: those inner
tendencies, this inner black book, while some are so close our bodies are
responding: this normal reality, our mail from eagles, our hearts debating a
lengthy leap: thereto, our deep concerns, our adverb feelings, our picturesque
nouns, our descriptive adjectives: this inner silence, this inward debate, if
but one ring, if but two songs: such fleece and pudding, such dance and light,
such engrained thought-prints: as floating gently, or pure majesty, our souls
collecting nuances….
…our heart’s museum, filled with vases, fraught by
emotions: our plural existence, riding mythic waves, while charged by passions:
this facial earth, those facial estates, at palaces somewhere close to frontal
lobes: such ear-whispers, such earbites, such uneasy relaxation: our reflexive
debates, our hesitant outreach, or so experienced it doesn’t matter: indeed, to
living existence, while mature deeply, if so be the test: our souls having
cake, our spirits sipping shakes, where brains are calculating each increment:
this field of mime-works, this insistent reality, or plain more joys over rain….
…our
existential palettes, our makeup kits, our mental chalkboards: our classroom
chairs, as carried through existence, our tentative questions: as flushed and
dancing, as inner vampires, or romantic wolves: to watch us closely, while we
yearn for company, where eighty percent seems unknitted: indeed, with pure
romance, indeed, with iridescent hopes, as men running to battle: our equality
love, our title for something deeper, while reality speaks to a list of habits:
our reasons for love, our friend first, our lover second, our family through
and through: this wealth of realities, this wealth of healthy concerns, our
trips to physicals: at sandwich and pop, at chips and salsa, or seated so still
Love invades such privacy: our mornings laughing, our nights reading, and our
travesties met with genuine comforts….
