Upon
a petal—this nightmare painted, experiencing hot flashes. This thing chosen, for life is tender, to
endure the anguish; but such is growth, this acrylic portrait, bleeding from
sweat. I see emerald tears, and
diamond angst, a locket of pain; where grains are golden, to grip the cross,
wailing in silence. His soul is
crying, fraught with heaviness, a patient disciple; where a woman dies,
searching for keys, to ignore genetics. He feels for unfit, a private scar, to
crisscross a vice. Oh the mystic, for birthstone sorrows, the offspring of
addicts; in which is passion, and sapphire tears, a heart screaming a
nightmare. I feel a mist, to sprinkle
a soul, a woman twice my grief; where pain wrestles, the death of innocence,
where innocence writhes; and this is hell, to carry a vest, filled with wounds;
but value is brilliant, for a cryptic soul, as cultic as an invisible
kiss. He saw a pendant, to culture a
thought, where silence is cultivation; and she pondered, the bluest sea,
stationed in-between. I often wonder,
to clamp an anklet, filled with visions baroque. Its heaven for prayers, a private lot, as
potent as an answer; where love is turquoise, for sacred blues, as touching as grays. The Rock is Fire, the dice of treasures,
to sip that Cup; and oh for rooks, pushed and pulled, a piece on a board; and
thitherto, a moment with a psych, dying through particles; and what to say,
gripping soil, to hear for differences.
I wish her well, to heal and soar, a soldier for a woman; but more to
hells, and granite earth, to climb a brickwall. It’s crazy this life, to build a
castle—upon marquise clouds; and there to watch, a perfect stranger, to judge
my heart; where death is shades, for marble prayers, the width of lights.
