As
opposed to fleeting, we utter fugacious. It’s a fancy
word
for art’s sake. Words are aphrodisiacs.
Through
warfare a hug
becomes
a sentence, an alchemic tug, to avoid something
found
nebulous.
“I
love you,” may become a glance, buried in trepidation;
but
we churn for substance, as opposed to wounds, where
“I
love you,” is saturated with actions.
Souls
are printed in oceanic waves. Meters become
claustrophobic,
grieving
for expression; so a sentence becomes a paragraph,
where
a paragraph becomes a page, where words are
considered
taboo; but poet’s are architects, tiptoeing erotic
art,
feeling for the utility of words.
We
awaken, flooded with fever, and words fall as they breathe.
I
gesture for love, becomes I love for love. Such is light, a
home
for hearts, threaded in poesy. It’s incandescent the eyes
of
a lemur; and symbols speak to psychic stems; and ever a
word,
bound in definitions, often employed as cryptic valves.
I’m
exhausted with yearning, ever to push, alive—but one
freedom.
So speak a word, a mystic motif, measured in words.
