Ink
to print and printer to soul.
Our
dreams are quilted,
bleeding
through fibers.
Unsteady
a fantast, to crochet a
vision,
while mourning softly. It came a midnight summer,
where
precepts stressed, cleaving to history. We breathe
a
secret, calculating verbs, ever to look normal. It was
porcelain
eyes, axis of a universe, where speech was
axiom.
Our linchpin, struck to endure, where a future is
laced
in rubies. Every gem an architecture, pausing to breathe,
unable
to type. I return, living a story, aligned with fiction.
How
has it come, leaping passions, ever touched with virtue?
It’s
a knotted phantom, to yearn for riches, nearly oblivious.
Thus,
we want, barely afloat, wafting through tinted grays.
Where
is strength, a radical strength, crying, “Freedom?”
I
ask, snipping webs, plunged into mischief, analyzing
dialogue.
So city to city, and spell to spell, we ignore what
squelches
love.
