Two,
maybe three syllables, tearing through a psyche.
It
was love, a shallow pond, to tune for syllables. I
was
struck, to spin reality, to muse illusions. I saw
culture.
It sung prose; heavy on a throttle. I smile; but
ours
is rain, a story sad, touched with angst. Indeed,
it’s
so gray, a sore lament; but wither this rain, to
churn
for peace, a tad bit fretful. I saw books, and words,
and
kites, and fruits. I was somewhere. It’s amazing.
I
sit and laugh, a bit cautious, pondering sheer
concern;
for we live a life, to feel through Wind, a bit
esoteric.
I feel a window, where bees are sad, for
something
spins. Life is enchanting, somewhat
hassled,
to brave a storm. I more than see, thankful for
prayer,
alive a private tear. It’s art for wings, gold for
words,
to chant up diamonds. I’m due for three, a
contagious
will, sorting through struggles; and there’s a
brochure,
filled with history, where moments were few.
