Saturday, November 26, 2022

It'll Remain Unjust

 

If loving you is wrong, by song of its completion, then dying has become illegal. Buttercream eyes, elongated nape, caressing eyebrows; a feeling made mesquite, an emotion out of order, the cage I ingest; a blacksmith with keys, a drummer with drums, a violinist with a cello—to have loved like fugitives, racing into blueprints, so grand—pineapple assurance; frightened to see you, alert to hear you, knowing home is over yonder—many footpaths, augmented lusts, fretting it might grow wings. Tarred and feathered—ink-stoned rubies, fiending over luxury hips, intrepid thighs, a woman, as opposed to something gray—floating into fantasy, framed in fevers, alert to a galaxy—withstanding the furies; lips parted, gaze treacherous, glowing like Angelica—the pain of its habits, so wrong in debate, to fret over ought behaviors. Looking intently. You know my thoughts. Trying a hand at slow paces, featured in allergies, so great the force.  

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...