I
awoke sluggishly, but ever this fire, to flicker come rain. Such is
enchantment,
a
mystic Chantress, a reservoir of freedom. We spark for candles, one for each
church,
to meditate perfection. It’s close for comfort, to capture chaos, and valve
insanity.
We study mania, adrift for stars, plus bruised and scarred. It’s the limn
of
pain, to fortify joys, the fens of virtue. There’s for doubt, where growth is
young,
shook by science and fate; but mix come light, to crave and soar, touched
with
radiance. He says, “I feel aglow—to climb through mansions.” We smile
for
knowledge, a pleasure come hurt, ever for set aside; and what for perfect, a
subtle
truth, as holy as unborn love. Its pious souls, for burning ears, as fervent
as
cultured lamps; and what for spotless, as filthy as rags, a summer storm of
hearts.
Its gracious wisdom, a low come high, to grieve for Limbo. We feel it like
love,
an image on a thought, to measure matter. The vat is full, to empty come
souls,
a yonic existence. There’s gravid ache, and phrenic tears, to speak to self.
We
thread for weft, sealed and sold, a slave for holy; and welkin arms, flood with
dye,
a feyic inscription. It’s a vatic vox, to veil come brains, featured through
lexicons.
We feel for marred, to awaken bliss, a cycle come weekly; and what
for
static, a frightened soul, to live but one motion; for fanes are lives, a
myriad of
airs,
a vehicle for a fantast. We crave a nimbus, to carry an anchor, to live a bit
for grown; and
turquoise tides, for human strides, to sort through cries.
