Tinge Of A Sonnet

I would if so be it into a coppice of webs—the funeral I attended the future I ruined where we often assert forgiveness. but familiar lies or body behavior or faces to floors. (I was sick when it flashed the ghosts were haven while I attached a religious sentiment. Love is kleptic such a thief to enter slowly: one is angry or sympathetic or plain disgusted. such segue sudden into blindness while all those lovers are discontinued. the bleeding the ideogram or pictures in spirit as they flash across consciousness. the beauty you died for. or passion so exuded. where Love is too attractive. (a brilliant brain a backyard cathedral or an intellectual symposium.) such a ladder for friends so confused where it strikes or such a lamp beneath a table. as cursed for beauty so able to run a dynasty while most are looking for your Confucius.) I would if so be it, but hell would destroy us, for so wild inside so calm in posters or alleviated from wilderness berries. I have thought of you it has become fragmentations while I despise your independence. but Love is weaving or Love is dependent while some lovers will be discarded. if but to hassle or but to die a man might wait the sky. such a talisman such training or terrible reception. to enter with zest to renew Jesus if but to resurrect a lost horizon. our gates high, our feelings dry, for it hurts like God to sacrifice.