Oh
the sheer giving, ever for oneness, haunted and holy.
To
mourn in stature, ever for comfort, to witness
animation.
We die a turn tragic, to rise a mystic hell, to
chime
with ghosts and scars. Our wounds, akin to
stigmata,
to revamp death, a sting for grace. To pause
as
faceless, eyes closed, ever to plant a kiss! Such a
page,
covered in colored pens, crossing into a margin.
We
live it to rise, as wise as angels, a self ever to perish.
More
for lights, a cryptic tale, ever to shift a cry! We
mourn
for love, to feel it care, set for stages of a journey.
There
we saw, haunted and holy, to rise with midnight
fevers.
Our dreams, to live a stream, fraught with holy
screams.
We live it Christ, a present flame, chained to
cycles
of stress. Oh the sheer giving, ever for oneness,
lightning
for portals. More for warmth, for healing souls,
ever
a privy scar; where doves pause, to flap a wing, a
symbol
for holy fears. Oh the majesty, to flit and fly,
famish
for more.
