Oh
to flit upon clouds and ever to languish filled with
glory.
I love more for love, to crochet mercy, reading
for
both good and evil. Oh the magnitude, to topple
a
dungeon, wailing unto freedom; or rather there,
scribing
prophecy, to chisel stone plates. She stands a
night,
watching for shadows, and inking cryptics; but
oh
for justice, for fission heart, to rapture a scroll. We
want
for truth and mystic stars, faint at the gates. Oh
to
love more, confused deeply, weeping through ponds.
How
convey—the deepest wisdom and partial to kindness?
If
for rain we flee, plucking splinters, afraid to question
pain;
but something instructs, a world of pressure,
communing
with gloves. It’s us to build a garden, and ever
in
our image. Oh for more mercy, an inward yearning, to
tiptoe
for holy. We chant and pray, filled with measure,
collapsing
at a heart-rule. I love more for love, a tint of
passion,
an uncanny energy; but ever more, a must by fear,
to
push towards fire.
Oh
to love, an inmost love, and riding thunder.
