They
swell gently, where tears flirt, to sigh a deep breath.
He
floats through time, to mimic bruises, furnace to
psych.
Life is wishing wells, filled to capacity, mourning
a
sad breeze. Something for waves, to cross a track, ten
miles
from nowhere. It’s a twilight-zone, captured
through
butterfly dreams, hiking through nightmares.
He
loves for heart, to spin for words, concerned to speak.
Its
cyan pains, russet welts, even saffron joys. It’s a
montage,
even a mirage, bedded in illusions; where he
lives
a voice, to surf a circus, grounded in petals. Love
is
full, albeit empty enough—to yearn for more love. He
feels
an inrush, for a world is speaking, shifting through
a
poem. Its crystals, plus aesthetics, even earthenware
souls.
He smiles deeply, a touch of etiquette, even a
soothing
vibe. Art is motion, a phantom’s eyes, an
opulent
mind. He bathes in lullabies, ever so silent, for
brushing
wildly. Selfhood’s a mystery, a stir for Ba to Ka,
even
twins to speak. So many anchors, to sail for seas, to
paint
a mural. This is tears, even a wet blanket, terrified
neatly. He ponders,
to sport a costume, yenning for life.
