We
express love, this rapid rain, frantic in a twilight zone. We die as phantoms,
sighted abrasively, enlove with music; somewhat happy, a casual love, this dire
need—to please such love, as this need to receive such love. It’s more this
life, seizing his mind, as spoken through illusions; some type of deadly, as a
ninth tier angel, this woman through diamonds.
I
can’t but see it, this inner question, to amble about love; as hiking through
symbols, as outward signs, to need but a touch for more. It’s ever this core,
bleeding for passion, this threshing concentration; to crave for essence, this
inward life, as expressed in love; somewhat nauseous, this smell of vomit—our
stomachs bubbling with acids.
It
mustn’t be life, to want this inner eye, as warm for this other season;
whereat, are fears, this cloth of reasons, to love as fervent as visions; where
paradise dwells, this soul for penchants, a woman at once with poetry; to have
for aptitude, this seething danger, to love as human rings; somewhat that finger,
so close in time, to melt for two in matrimony.
