Arrow of Love

That existential droning oscillating in my waxen visions of furtherance like chirping bluebells echoes sympathy for fools. Blurred lines in quiet seas glow brighter than tangerine, disintegrates into snowdrops, in rain mist. Love is a moon speaking to me, talking about a mosaic of stars. I open my arms. I welcome the harvest and suck on ripe fruit. The pleasure is a peachy bruise, a lost memory I recovered from the shipwreck of my heart. Abandoned haunting. Shimmering blue dust. I light my cigarette and breathe in the wispy smoke clouds. The morning sky is romantic, like a nightingale eagerly waiting for the first drip of liquid sunlight by a spring fountain. Somewhere in the chaos I found myself eclipsed, in a multitude of dreams, collecting precious stones after the drought.  I do it because I care for you, I remember you, I adore your every movement. Here I am in rapture, drinking my blue velvet tears of gratitude. I have swallowed oceans, the night as black as a crow in chains. Evermore dwelling. My blood flows like a rosary.