I’m
awaiting the deeper evening, to enjoy this art, to capture a glimpse. It’s a
deep oasis, chastised by many, to gaze the deep abyss; where pressure builds,
to feel for guilt, to swig and pause. It’s quite the gray—to live it with
scars—to feign for easygoing. I see for cycles, to peek at clouds, to hear a
woman’s voice. It’s not for mother—but rather for sparks—lingering through a
future. I welcome this light, to ponder my anguish, building on feats. The
earth is green, and maybe purple, and more for beige; where a mother sits,
debating lines, to share with her daughter. I carry a fuax pas, to trickle in
particles, to know a wrenching breath. It’s welted souls, a sense of purgatory,
to tell this venture. We started young, cleaving to vices, as wounded as unseen.
I lost for winning, to share for essence, the scars of soldiers; and now for
colors, to shape for prose, the woes of nescience. It’s more to life, to grow
through days, the gilt of greed; but heart to presence—a subtle glow, featured
in a forbidden light. I walk and mourn—to set for freedom, to shake a seeking
feeling; where palms moisten, the rhythm changes, a flux ensues; to paint with
oils, to canvas a wound, to know for imperfect; and never to hear it, for this
is madness, to greet an old sorrow. There’s more the media, an art internal, to
commune with a daughter. It’s subtle for overt, buffing the stained glass,
reaching through features. We love it more, a furnace to roar, sketching
invisibly. The soul flickers, to morph into flames, to engender for message;
for sight to mind, to dig for deeper, to utter a vibration. Its mental
graffiti, and charcoal flashings, bringing us to light; where murals bleed, the
life of scars—the beauty of rain.
