those moody souls, robust
splinters, to know with error, it never relates; in fashion, to mean so little,
in action, to distraught the countenance, in actuality, expected, because of
one’s omission.
the parent of chaos. traumatic anniversary.
the myriad things without a beginning.
according to resilience, resonance,
river and time, the ambition to adore the one—through church and fetish, fair
into existence and pride, paired and under acceptance. we mostly in feelings,
speak to sunshine and eyes, hips, thighs, and satisfaction; I speak to numbing
reality, so good it hurts, so unlikely, it feels abstract. the palm in its
pain, the element in shame, such gravity, so grave, so gathered.
the stars have been starry, the
beauty has been beautiful, the galaxy has given a gift—the dream is dreamy, the
passion is pleasure, so many made cryptic, the christic made culture—to live
for, sure fierce amore, the core making melody for compassion, love, absent of
doubt, by miracle of its art.
by the tranquility of the humbling
smile—clocks ticking, magic made in souls, mountains made to move; passionate
kisses on plush furniture, bodies in forever—made into completeness, one ache,
one love, born during eternity.
irresistible feigning, the sweetest
nonchalance, intricate, filled, making melody and ashes and falling into
pillows. no greater gift than haloed ecstasy, no greater lie, than despite all
rules, and life makes a chance on romance.
if made concrete, given credence,
to walk in a daze, glazed over, dunked into water, made cleansed, recommitting every
day—made into grandness during February.
the first to have unlocked
energies, the first to strike the screaming climax, the first to demand the mirror’s
unveiling.
