A weakening touch, such a delicate gesture, souls by a lonely teardrop; occasioned to adore promise, a man to dreams, waiting on church. So affectionate it aches, common love, nay, mastered delivery.
If sweat is dripping, if the mountain is good to us, such daunting inquiries. Too lost to speak, too middle grounded to go low, and racing to see it.
To nourish an appetite—asunder by flame, reaching to become tender: gentility. Unbridled insinuation; blind with you, thrust through without you, when rivers perish.
Into topaz-turquoise fires; by mirror to tumble into panic; by reality to stand again. Each faculty fraught by tension, cupped in ecstasy, invisible to winds, aching to make a difference.
(Nauseating stimuli.)
Tattered and tarnished, such a weakening touch. And uphill those vines, to put peach in ink, to put plume on paper. A damaged vessel, better, a vassal, violet purple, pain most royal.
Such are to fables, a soul to his lies, a fantasy to its memories. Most refined. Held accountable. Dying in existence—rabid lover, cursed in Cupid.
