It’s
core a sky-fall
to
dream your eyes
and
crystal shields
racing
through fiction.
I
love it more, merely a thought, to form illusion. Words are
mnemonic,
to spread for wings, to bond for spirits. I know
little,
where she appeared, to jog a cradle. Its millpond walks,
and
instrumentals, to carry a trestle. Ink becomes holy, an
internal
halo, a feeling unborn. We fly, tavern souls, to
embody
attitude. So feel for face, to shimmer for face, a love
graced
in images.
I
love it more, a shaman hug, as vibrant as sunrays. Verbs are
action,
to skip a heartbeat, to gaze through circuits. I want for
something,
as keen as voyage, a spectrum of love. It’s more a
feeling,
ever to intrude, where such is cryptic. I love it like
novels,
to sing déjà vu, to outsoar self. We spin, sipping on a
yacht,
heavy in thought. She watches, to speak to liquor, a
young
saint. Its mere fable, and sable eyes, and cable minds.
We
live it lonely, and never to tell, where all is said.
I
sprout, a budding tulip, as mystic as yogis; and every tinge, a
whisper
soft, as lonely as a crowd. I trek for webs, driven in
illusion,
as calm as owls. We pin it silk, to settle for cotton, a
field
of debris. I love it for myrtle trees, to sip for liquor, as
gone
as a morning kiss. I’m drawn, ever to a soul, speaking ‘til
dawn.
Its subtle shivers, to string heartbeats, to sing guitars;
for
life awake, a tender sorrow, to live it uncaged.
We
grace ambition, at unawares, to a lonely village; and more
to
want, a thing unsaid, kneeling for bliss. Its welkin stars, and
unborn
rites, feeding a pigeon. The pond is velvet, at least in
sight,
where a soul mourns; and more the pain, to gaze and leap,
there
for ghosts. I love it in beige, a vessel strong, and able to
cry;
and every tress, a holy path, a grace in purple.
Feel
it bleed, a passion skating, even to ollie. We leap to birth
wind,
even silken waves. I’m there, seeking value, and torn
asunder.
I love—and felt to fly, cringing lonely. It’s ever pure,
to
know for cures, and cherry plums. We live it, a pendant lock,
praying
to grandma; and something dies, a self for old,
grinning
through darkness.
