He’s
unsung, for singing to life, a fist of power. Its sign
for
symbol, to sort through soot, groping at walls. We
use,
partly terrified, ever for use. We love it, to wrestle
early
morning, staring at glitter. He took the hilt, to
thrust
the soul, bleeding through portals; for love is
journey,
to rivet for joy, a vest of ripples. There’s a rasp,
to
stream within, a kernel for mystics. He soared a
hurdle,
deeply infused, a private life. A woman saw, to
toss
a festoon, to strengthen hidden senses. She sent for
specters,
to reap for tension, a night of fireballs. It’s more
for
cultic, guarded by FED, to camouflage knowledge.
He
saw for it, to die for it, to lose it not; for many
thwarted—a
set of segments, to seize the relics. He drank
enigmas,
sealed for stamina, a studded whetstone. A nib
took
journey, to rift through prose, to absorb beauty; for
sight
became sickle, to tillage a sensorium. He was
outwitted,
focused sorely, to morph overnight. The style
a
flower, framed in petals, a fever driven.
