Its
gray a force, as local as heartbeats, as vocal as thoughts.
He
drank a fever, to stir graphics, an inward cinema. He
loved
image, to slowly die, centered in webs. Something
would
live, a thriving grain, a rooted pulse. She grew for
mind,
a graven cave, to rescue instincts. He knew for
words,
a tent of mystics, striking through graves. They
wrote
a spirit, to channel souls, haunted for houses. He
cleansed
a temple, a kenotic vine, nibbling on gnosis. Ever
she
came, in winter black, as gothic as black boots. It
was
more a dream, a sweaty fever, gripping a life-force.
He
drew fire, to rush a soul, her very being. Never a
thought,
to claim a future, a founded dream. This is force,
a
course through time; but what to live, a being of sin, to
awaken
a mental castle? She’s ever alive, a featured
thought,
gnawing on souls. He heard for names, a picture
for
guts, chanting weekly; for visions came, a vest of songs,
if
only a voice. How for earth, to clear for grays, ever adrift;
for more a death,
brimming brightly, a cryptic ache.
