I’m
somewhere, to ponder a myriad, wherefore, I should say, of.
I’m
a young ghost, purified, but a moment.
I
see us in misery, ever to smile, courting gems.
I
grip a prayer, to burn a wick, found in soft scents.
It’s
more the clouds, to perish the nights, lost in a lover’s arms.
We
lied to feel love, a sweet aroma, streaming through mania.
A
stop sign is moving, to grieve sightless, a mystic wind.
So
many traits, to exude but one, crying over scars.
I
broke mirrors, to witness shadows, rocking gently.
We
died to hear, but one verse, trickled from a thought.
I’m
there, sitting here, to utter, “We live.”
It’s
a slight miracle, a murky charm, torn to believe.
You
read harshly, to scope a flaw, ever charged for dreams.
You’re
a hawk, even an eagle, composing symposiums.
I
read in sore amazement, to stumble your heart.
So
many flares, to capture such words, to strip a tare.
Nights
structure the days, wherefore to care, stressing over
funerals.
I stream you, to set aside contention, ever to lie still.
You
vibrate, to dare a soul, drifting through habits.
It’s
a gash, to live a page, to tiptoe a future.
Tell
me tears, a plethora of harms, to gravitate less magic;
for
miles are screaming, to sort dimensions, laughing—but
once.
Its pipe tobacco, energy drinks, and your smile.
We
rock this way, a wounded joy, aiming for splendor.
You’re
much a mystery, a sudden chant, a measured hoist.
I
claw to climb, to grunt to stand, glaring through forests.
You
write a note, captured in a bottle, to mail a soul.
I’m
reminded sorely, to vex a heart, fluxed with zeal.
Have
you heard? I’m reading your prose, raving over metaphors,
crawling
through stanzas. I see glory, a private mystic, amidst
the
Scrolls. Patience is cryptic this way, an unending gate, a sign
of
love. I felt you more, to floor, a candle’s cry.
