Let the tides be gentle. Mind magic. Such cryptic dice. All we might imagine. Red blooded blues. Love most delicate diamonds. An appetite for roses, mentioned upon ribbons, some
alchemic curse. Those poignant eyes, trespassing lips, brows dire to sin. The sun keeps sinning, such dear complexes, those few missives—certain charms, incessant woes, pausing to enjoy romance—the curse of its song, sheer anxiety, one compelling step. By association, bending
curvatures, akin to a gorgeous frame—such aesthetics, poolside bikinis, while mourning imperceptibility. When love is over, love begins, giggling, nudging, feeling gentle sorrows. Nocturn delights. Gracious remembrance. To mention it—is to die a smidgen, and no one knows this experience. Like open mind-caves, like furious rivers, so much closer to Egypt. If living
weren’t jazz, like kindling firebrand, it must hurt some. Love was staccato, one grand creek, surrounded by beautiful swans. The closing of seas, iced as cold, trying to warm its heart. By those far oceanic fires, such undulations, filled by inexplicability. More underbrush, more tulips, a soul sipped flaming water. Warring to dream clearly. Wildly into a vision. To tell a flippant saga, to tease with remorse, so satisfied to be on edge.
