Lines
continue to run, mating with tone, flowing into a
soul.
I see similarities, absent as I compose. I’m here
deliberately,
feeling delicate souls. Something more of
pain,
touches eyes, where I trespass dungeons. “It’s the
illness,”
where a young is mourning, a mother is
crying,
and grandparents pause, pace, and measure. I
cant’
find you, ever to feel you, wandering a nightlight.
A
fog is thick, even bold, subtle and dramatic. Color is
broken
and whole, where mature eyes, blend into
controversy.
Every line’s a cave, drenched with feeling,
moving
humanity. It’s existential, such growth and
joy,
ever washed, adept to soar. But what of misery,
where
a simple task, drops a tear? I ask, peering differences,
moved
by a painting. It’s such pregnant music, yogic
in
its complications, refined and gothic. I drift, but only
to
breathe. It was ever your smile;
somewhat grieving,
pushing
itself forward. I couldn’t fathom design, hiding
from
sight, silent enough to be seen. You hid in plain view,
undergoing
transformation. It often happens; where love
becomes
a fortress, expressed in our gestures. I was so
aloof,
pausing to see myself. You embodied spirit, ever to
trespass,
ink to mirror. How have we changed, wanting
for
life, in need of everything?
