Quaint Mystique

There’s a cricket ere the heart, and bats in the closet; plus,
I daydream. She’s something special: a pirate’s treasure. I’m
So distant this plank: I must dive deep; but fated wind, an
Island pearl; and portrait fair, a make-believe. I grip the rain;
And kick the curb. So much to forget: and so much to love;
But squiggly dots, paint a rose; and stippled art, graves the
Soul. She strives perfection: a heavy crane; and cultured eyes,
Pin the ribbon. So colorful the mind: a Grecian village. I
Bake a vision; and cry the yeast; for lavish dreams, a valley
Beige; and deepest hope, a grey abyss; but never such green;
And never such red: if only to count sheep. So near to scream;
And so far to wail. I nibble raspberries, and color patterns;
And so much the dots, a quilted language; and thus the ache,
An opera light; and thus the love, a quaint mystique.