You
flood a chakra, to slam a heart, even a boomerang. Such is essence, a voice
of
citadels. Its flights of chi, to stand atop clouds, as lowly as sediments. This
for
humble: to wait is silence, a fire of a soul. We portrait love, upon hidden
bricks,
a wall tilting love. It’s volt to volt, even spirit, climbing through a
soul-cave.
The castles flame, risen to stature, to touch for healing. We venture
greyly,
the fevers of faith, to see for glints; where series blend, to spin for
fans,
an upwelling of rivers. We’ve cried this night, clutched in spirit, to rise
a
radiant glow. Its biospheres, founded in humans, to hydroplane cosmos; but
what
for targets, to hit for vests, a type of intelligence. We fathom blood work,
to
nurture organs, with little to posit for mind; but vessel to move, a raw
entity,
to catapult energy; or more for guts, a feature through chakras, to
follow
a thought. We zip with zest, to hear for names, for sudden for sullen. We
ride
a sky-drum, the lux of light, throwing beams of fire; or for near, to chant
it
roughly, to send for jitters. Its mind to voice, or voice to spirit, or all the
above.
We
cleave a mist, to stir for gumbo, a pot of mystery; or go for deeper, an
eight
hour mantra—the presence of a stranger; where hearts are healed, a
mixture
of spirit, to leap into a furnace. Its breath to wind, or wind to fire, an
soulquake
of whispers; where brains call, to tackle forces, adrift a silent room.
