Opus Fey

Such an opus: our dotted line; and pensive tears—a wistful
Cry; and feel the beast—a need to love: or feast the death—
A tortured dove; indeed the soul—a vault of chess: the rites
Of love: the acts of breath; and feral pride—a block of

Kelp: a tier of bricks: a bleeding self. My opus love: the
Wheel of life: the flick of flame: the fuse of light; and lance
To heart: we die the love; and puce to flame: we trek the
Sun. Indeed the love, a nectar peach: a rose aglow; the

Wings of peace; and lute to mind, the song of tears: a silent
Groan: a flute of fears; and harp to soul—the tent of bliss:
A fusion rum: a passion kiss; but light to dark; and dark to
Light—a bush of thorns—the cries of life; and thus the pain;
And thus the grey: a need to dream: a need to pray; and thus
The love—an opus fey.