I
must speak upon it: this thing churning for yearning a heart with keys. It’s
featured in lyrics: to die your name, blaring Eminem. I find a tunnel, buried
in humans, to connect a village; for we die so often, to scribble symbols, to
live in heart-caves. I must speak upon it: to chatter blankly, and such a
metaphor, to stream our souls. The world is small, to capture your waves,
burning and typing. I feel this thing, to explore your land, to melt glaziers;
where there’s a goddess, and there’s for gods, to funnel a mind-pit; but
there’s for more, this arbitrary position, to feel as you. It’s more to say,
“Mine is better, for I have invested me.” I glean from scripture, where the law
is heart, and the heart is law; where judgment is by heart, the action of ways,
and the ways of actions. I feel a picture, a delicate woman, soaring through
heart-waves. The art is rapture, for something inward, to unearth Gregorian
chants. There’s a pagan rite, for christic blends, even the souls of fire. It’s
more this thing, a balance within scales, to know for visitation. We channel
like fevers, to extract more, a choir through a psyche; where two are one, for
one is two, to dissect inclinations; for one is nodding, where one is silent,
typing as I gesture. The Ghost is heart, thumping for drumming, a treble
reality; where life is motion, to live and feel, and privy to secrets; but many
feel, to dwell in silence, creating rituals; and this is love, to contact Love,
fallin’ through mind-caves; but there’s a woman, as wise as Huldah, to center
attention. We filter ghosts, to shoot for circles—that float through winds.
It’s life to life, and familiar souls, to know for comforts; where death is
inertia, for something plagues, to push for action.
