It’s
your soul, inasmuch as an orchestra embedded in a heart-tear—to crochet for
luxury, as art to a poet, as utopic skies—to speak of change, this velvet rug,
to stumble through masquerades—as subtle nuance, to pause in your honor, a
seaquake to rupture an ocean. It’s a lamp in your soul, brimming in a cup, to
shatter into a dynasty—for fever this night, spinning through day-springs, a
canvas upon a nightmare; so paint us free, if only a dream, as quixotic as,
Milton/as torn our paradise, to refurbish souls, a sublime kiss; to rapture for
hugs, a pool to spin, twirling through twilight-zones; as born to Light, as
born discreetly, as a riddle to staring eyes. It’s honeysweet wisdom, for
bittersweet moments, an amulet as ritual—to fly this grief, an imprinted
heartstring/an imprinted voiceover—to soar as sullen—this vessel imbuing
souls—to climb upon wildfire, as spurts of inner cities, a choir to erupt in
passions. Oh to tell you, the secrets of life, that aglow that moment—to feel
perfection, the motion of Spirit, as swimming through grime—to channel as heavy,
those stars of souls, this paradox of nightfall; for silence dwells deep our
centers, that closer to vocalizations—to fester as ensouled, as living within,
as screaming for closure—to give us bliss, camouflaged in turmoil, to feel it
to never forsake it: this reservoir of visions, as one’s birthstone, to vow
forevermore; so perish this love, to arouse this love, as one manifesting a
spirit’s folklore: to cry at wilderness, to see for trees, to study both bark
for branches—as not to perish, this threaded appetite, as not to refuse such
heirlooms.
