The craze is simple,
bleed it out.
The rage a temple
to the drought.
We all encompass these things
the self religion: all a mode.
But can we all be simple minds?
Or merely dead cars on this road?
I will be quizzically yours my love,
springsummerwinterfall.
But there are no treasons between us,
as most lovers see.
Believe you me:
I turn words into villas
that thoughts inhabit.
And taste that upward escaping rain of insanity that tells our story to the sky.
Conspicuously yours my love,
the tempered steel of my heart
and porous calamity,
entranced,
confused,
belligerent,
all a
mode. |
Submission Name: Al a Mode
