I’m
with need to feel it, this future swan, as embedded in mother’s wisdom; to have
for clearance, these days of yore, where pores spoke of madness; that solemn
ache, that inner chide, the deep frustration; to know of love, as something
created, where feelings contradict logic: this gravid pull, this heartened
mind, this agony bleeding joys; as to read a line, and see for self, that churn
stirring glory. We love you more, as torn and broken, this plight of adulthood;
to touch for bliss, the pressure of smiles, to read each crevice; as born too
soon, as living too late, this skating of souls; to find purgatory, to pray by
apparitions, this long stroll towards maturity. I’ve found a friend, the
thoughts of your soul, to see you in mirrors; as to avoid panic, to avoid hate,
to culture every heartbeat. I hear you more, screaming for prose, that inner
rejuvenation; to sight for pearls, that outward brook, as to take presence in
speech; as articulation, to judge by measure, that furnace kindled and stirred;
but more to love—to vibe at length, this potent condition; as infused deeply,
and sitting in stillness, to feel such revelation. We know for charms, as
something chiseled, but how to ignore silence; or this flowing light, streaming
during wee hours, where the heart becomes a flame. I know not of tales, to stir
a slew of stories, where love is painted perfect; but more to laws, as inner
wisdom, pushing passed that deep confusion; to anchor a young swan, to stir a
vest of emotions, to ask for our written word; where volume is art, that touch
of ancestors—our waves soaring through mindcaves; to know for glory, that story
of myth, as to actualize a living feature; to know for mind, your inner drives,
to augment a vibrant force; so live to flourish, through various strains, where
the mind proves for needs.
