Heated Tryst

I must broach love, the pulse of dreams, my aching soul, my
Scripted theme. And sing my love, the croon of prayers,
Awake the ghost, uproot the tare. My relic spear, my silent
Pride, the light of Goshen, a sacred tide. And heart to soul,
The tears of grace, a mantra flame, a mystic face. But light to
Flame, my torrid love, the life of kitsch, my fitted glove.
And glory born, our treasured kiss, a burning storm, a
Heated tryst.        

And life to death, our fleeting flare, a touch of joy, the pain
Of prayer. But brace the sword, my bleeding dove, endure the
Blade, exhaust the love. For sky to earth, a solemn dream,
And death to love, our fated stream. Thus we perish, a
Broken heart, but sated sore, and torn apart. Hence the passion,
Our sacred scar, the tears of light, the stars afar.