Each line speaks your name; if I were eloquent, if I
knew dance, cadence, arts and rain. To have sung in purple, to have crimson
asphalt, like romance is easy. A part in souls, by a grave indifference, to
lose parts of adolescence—aching in orange, plucking daffodils, wishing upon a
shooting star. I would with fantasy, like a soul unhinged, to have craved in
times it was impossible. Some dear excellence, carved inside, spirit entwined
with flesh. If it’s uncouth, forbidden, then walk afar, speak to roses, tell
Elijah. Much a curious sky, always watching, nothing remains tucked away;
probing passions, discussing pains, ever a creative muse. With days to sunfall,
with weakness as strength, with getting closer—made apart, seeking crescendo,
pleading with insensitivities. To have life, death must follow, to have breath,
negated by an empty carcass.
