He
tortured he rugged soul to fathom a vixen. She lived
music:
somewhat eccentric, somewhat emphatic. They
died
in London, to rise in Cali. He wrote a book, to speak
her
beauty; and she wrote an album, to speak his love.
They
fried shrimp, baked salmon, to guzzle Champagne.
Nights
were drugs. Days were mystery—for evenings to
shelter.
He wanted mind. She wanted nature. Both a cave.
Such
debris, to sword a flame, off to Rome. They spoke a
language,
for all was consequence. She loved like bees, but
only
for kings. He swarmed like wasps, a cycle eternal.
They
fought to touch an animated force, headed for
confession.
She couldn’t numen the ring. He couldn’t squash
the
praise. It overwhelmed, for minds agog, a sign of
incarnation.
He wrote for love. She died for love. They
perished
for sacrifice. She sung deeply, to flip ecstasy, to nail
a
palm. Love hallowed souls. Fate outsoared time. They
broke
glasses, chiseled vows, sullen for joy—the joys of love.
Never
for such, a flaming guitar, staring at a miracle.
