More
excited to touch, caressing his flesh, she devours a simple soul. I was sicker
those years, trying to sing, left in turmoil; fortune to sense, agony in his
bones, Love is a star; anthem and pain, art and surgery, glory and fame; so
electric, so gorgeous, and never a thought of me—so deep in treasures, more
blues, Love was mine in a vision—as to lie the tale. Too connected to shiver
free, too addicted to adore a soul, so enlove with fury and gravel; to panic in
passion, to have anger and glory, so dear to losing, it begins to become
sentimental. A hungry man, a lonely spirit, fretting a million mistakes—if to
love like gold, such feral diamonds, wrapped in dirty ecstasy; surefire litany,
so many apostates, to feel it as it was revealed—so angered, to have sacred
silence, to visit the hearts—so dispelled, so dissonant, damn near despondent.
If only to love—until tired, to lose interests—so tired and Love is sinking, a
pain in a mirror, as adored the last gem.
