Fated
love is evermore, both root and salience. It’s more ambrosia, to assuage fears,
barefaced and chiseled; where caprice is wanting, to usher effluence, to
prevent for hapless. I speak of ideals, where love intoxicates, ever to avoid a
breach; but more for life, to wrestle for love, where a kiss shifts for mean.
We fawn, guiltless, headlong with love, ever to reach for more. Its
russet
rain, to grip for grass, to stipple terror; but more for love, a splendid vine,
to savor for hearts. We’re breathless, amply amazed, and anxious to prove love.
Blunders become heartaches, even treble beats, sorely unbolted. We fix for
fair, to love for symbol, to utter the taboo. Its picture love, and rapture
love, to swelter come midnight; but more for life, where struggle
yearns,
to offer but a token of affection. We groan and grind, and pull for sutures,
carving rain upon pearls. We fall to dirt, lost forever, grieving for
exaggeration; but more for love, to gambol love, a fantast for love. Its
phantom joy, another planet, purified for sanctums. Our world is love, a
fulgent grain, to outsoar woes. Cloth is made purple, for such as royalty,
dining in fresco; but
more
for life, a privy pain, where silence tortures tomorrow. We gear for pain, to
witness form, moaning for the formless. Love is then heavy, an inmost ache,
seeking for solace. We tear for heaven, and panic for names, kneeling in a
sanctuary; but more for love, a fortune bold, rinsed in justice. It’s a light
for darkness, a cure for poison, wailing through a storm. We touch for
warmth,
a beaming brooch, found in chorus. Art becomes music, to drift a note, lost in
vocals. We die to live, ever for souls, as tender as an unborn seed.
