I
give us souls, that thing through wants, as eyes churn a tear; but only one,
that furious hatred, to have lived that second. I cried a desert, enlove with tumbleweed,
at sects, a serious man; to dine at turmoil, a bit inhibited, to lose a vital
element. It haunts by love, this vase of flowers, as appeasing discord; to see
for frictions, this lively cage, as borne through essence. I love by measure,
as cool a sea-breeze, channeling by method that moment; to ask for love, this
bias chessboard, as affectionate as altruism; where mothers dance, this
threefold woman, juggling multiple faces; to touch his hand, that vulnerable
second, as dying to hear, “I love you.” I saw it slipping, this mental grip, to
lose a queen. I heard it echo, this failing love, to gain a queen. It takes for
mercy, to love by face, this chase through delusions; while seeing psychs, that
inch by inch, to hear the word; this
casual song, this piecemeal adventure, while affective deeply. I turn to you, a daughter in veils, that
mental bulb; to harness dreams, while raising love, to thump a father’s heart;
as way so young, exposed to chaos, but a product of divinity; to ache at mind,
this thing of ifs, to want for mother
something peaceful; but what for swans, that daily sacrifice, as to realize, it
never ceases; where love needs balance, as humans need oxygen, while tears need
palms. It becomes a journey, scribbling upon mirrors, to shatter said mirror.
We die composure, where others flourish, and we do it for Christ; but more to
thoughts, this rajah event, to think through a backdoor. They call me crude,
for reading every line, to utter what preachers keep silent: this lying tongue,
confirmed by God, where prophets slew a kingdom; to chance with grace, this
immortal art—that face but a dying dynasty; to live by force, this coarse
goodbye, as to lose so much; but these are brains, bent on selfish acts, to
think of self before life; but something for love, this mystic realm, featured
in attributes: that fragile ego; that fawning web; while love spawns concrete;
to endure love, where love suffers, at points, this fatal attraction.
I
met a demon, this beautiful wand, as courtly as invisible platforms; to die
with grace, as to lose with grace, this terrible reality; as cut to bleed, or a
bullet his mind, this fraction of persons. It couldn’t be love, as to have
never met—that intimate chisel-storm; where friends become partners, while lovers
become enemies, where both maintain this physical convulsion. Our songs are
vicious; our murals are vivid; where all is illusion; this place of myth, while
nothing occurred, as to have written a road of spikes.
