Love made light, had darkness, tilling garden—a thief
of arcs, breezy sails, raving over nightfall; lioness haven, cheetah empire,
too much spirit to let go; make it remarkable, terrible excellence, featured in
songs—the massage was internal—weathered interior, if you were there, a mirror,
speaking to self, trying to outdo visions—falling in passion, powerful
pleasure, the attribute by umbrella—to call it Love. Longer daydreams, pash
made perfect, tightened, relaxed, some dream, with Love angling, surrendering,
so acrobatic, perfect justice, major tears. Daffodils. Old poetry. Ancestral
energy. To have needed you, a reflection of skies, seated in converse—music made
magical, each treasure, every art, uncouth animals: much to mimic, marble
ceilings, stereotypes and compassion. In adoring silence, an epiphany in
meadows, a platypus giggling—to know whispers, to age tenderly, affixed to
immortal cravings—battle of excellence: back to it, early morning, classics of
nature—acting out, coming to conclusions, asking for mercy. Too delicate to
overcome, too irregular to become normal, so much to arrive with wings.
