Thursday, August 20, 2015

Waves

We feel for love, spinning through waves, engraved deeply.
We fly to freedom, alert to rain, crawling through sewers.
I love You more, for hearts to soar, to puncture war.
There’s ever grief, to couple ecstasy, sorely enchanted; for
what to give, both wound and weal, pierced through time?
I ask, torn for faceless, to touch for gift-ness, plunging
riddles. Have we fallen, needled souls, to fill a scar? I love
You more, to freely float, to escape a body. We drift, to
waft, flitting through space. I return, filled with energy,
to fold a day. More for waves, to channel lights, to hear a
kiss. Such is silence, to echo loudly, to shift for pieces. It’s
a miracle—of mystic madness, marching through marsh.
Was it Us, to rise for born, a wealth of chills. I blink,
dearly amazed, from death to dirge. There’s a life, flickering
at a distance, calling for faith. I embark, trekking a forest,
to water for roots. You glisten, in brilliant light, sending
seraphims. I pause, to thirst for coals, drawn to rivers. Life
is Love this way, a seeming abyss, flipping through trials.     

Such is energy, even spirit, floating through waves. We
bond, to form a station, even a theory. We’re more for
Love, to struggle a maze, braiding red yarn. It’s sudden
a gem, striking through life, to become That. I feel it
wise, to climb for stairs, a ladder in a breeze. We dance
for gray, draped in white, a river of flawed diamonds.
I’m less to speak, for more to write, structuring for meter.
It’s all for waves, a fleet of caves, streaming through
space. How to fly, from cloud to sky, to reason for why?
I ask, somewhat bias, a son of man; for souls are worn,
born to light, stressing for culture. We feel it more, from
birth to age, torn asunder. I hear it move, a subtle
crackle, flooded with vibration. Where was I, a sullen
cry, pierced with Love? Such is gray, a skeptic color,
asearch for concrete; but live it—for sculpture, ever to
breathe. We die it more, for strength of life, private in
prayer. It’s more for waves, gripped in passion, laughing
through tears.   

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...