I’m
a guitar, love—thrumming through pages, screaming,
“Good-byes.”
I’m a ghost, love—drumming through history,
combing
blue rivers. It’s ever a background, the flesh of
skin,
even antique rites. I love it in grays, a faded flower,
to
follow a mirage. I thirst it is fiction, a field of cymbals,
a
fraction of personality. We’re living to die, found in
lifestyles,
to finally witness dark lights. Such impulse, to
purchase
a slice, staring at pearly gates. I drift, to speak of
passion,
a cry for poets; for lights are dim, gas is high, and
beauty
is mourning. I love it more—in T’s—and denim blues—
a
heart for substance. Live it royal, a book of bars, a subtle
metaphor.
It was something said, a feeling gray, even a
tide
of clarity. I heard, to move, a world of concrete; but
ever
vague, a mystic slant, a creature of habits. I love it in
bold,
a sore condition, a must for hide. So give us comfort,
to
comb a vault, a collar for souls. Such was joy, despite the
woes,
crying on a back porch; but I love it in skirts, a preppy top,
speaking
strongly. It’s ever a life, building high, a skeptic art.
