Senses shift. Feelings necessitate
emotion. The cadence becomes immortal.
Shadows in the meadows, dreams re-reaching,
hearts and motion.
Flung into memories. To watch and
bury. Minds tugged until rebellious.
Seashores. Seashells. Seas made of
deserts. Souls slaughtered. Seahorses gasping.
Minds mutilated. Aches and tides.
The love is a tsunami. Something is filled with substance.
Cells and bars. Living faster those
days. The perfect romance has died.
I was so young, filled with optimism—the
soul was a vignette.
Can we blame the cautionary mind?
Waves and wounds and personality.
Adoring was imaginary. Loving was
senseless. Love has been thrilled with variety.
The chasm is deep. The terror
became a hotspot. So much to crave after her music.
So necessary. Seated poolside.
Looking like the younger models. So secondary the mission.
Blues and jazz—frantic ways to have
joy—life might seem askew.
We wonder why some are chosen, or
the quest of maggots, in a lifesaving situation, and cash out.
The strangeness of the captive
soul. The war inside to care for the mind—running with essence and problems,
the grace of the sinner.
Senses shifting. The topic is
women. What shall we permit, while she honors her autonomy?
Brains pondering winning, living
vicariously, memories seeming immortal.
From the intestines, with
everything to give, so much a sinner.
Intelligence spelling his survival;
like the land of the lost—the flaming lagoons.
Love fed her nightmare. She lived
her monster. And fed off of her angel.
Calling for departure, much
transgression, preaching on tarmac.
And a soul was smiling, holding her
father’s hand, before she woke in rage.
Guts seemed ready, raw, prepared
for the orientation; most radical lives!
The cup is immortal, as mentioned
in Psalms, so independent, the law becomes winning.
The terror of the prophet, the
profits of the situation, demons on rebound.
First the scent of perfume, then
the full-figured woman, then love was made.
A headache with a scent, the
miracle in waves, told to have faith.
