Pomegranate in Merciless Fist

The silent contemplation gripped me like a pomegranate in a merciless fist. I let the manly beauty almost real with a face of a fairy and a stolen gaze intimately wander inside me. It is barbaric to falsely love her. Since then, with a glassy gait, I have inhabited scars, seen illuminated birds, peered through the boundary lock, sunk like the feather of a concept and emerged like a miracle in God's providence, among poems that sip dew and children that gather herbarium. My soul, like a white-footed spring, shyly watches as the smith of memory shoves her aspirations, blesses premonition and spring notions, and lays me to the seed of exclamations to lead, if not my beloved, into a Pack for Two.