There’s
a spirit, a silent mystic, spun in anguish; where bliss are moments, a sense of
furnace joys, a segment of rainbows. We gilt for scars, to peer for youth, a
taste of reluctance. I cry your star, as fervid as devotion, as deliberate as
psychs. We chime through colors, a tad bit pensive, drenched in glorious
webs.
The
future is silent, aside for preparation, to witness a Bodhi. We’ll chat-the-discomfort, to enter the
margins, to return to life. I’m more
a dreamer, for a shirt untucked, to palm a tear; for souls are famished, where
ours is flame, geared towards awakening; where levels churn, the act of flux,
kneeling for seeing.
There’s
a spirit, a volt of light, as precious as swans; in which is lightning, a year
of voltage, the arc of daily vision.
We vibe as folklore, to stream the heartland, an inner sanctuary; where
portraits live, a sight for spellbound, to converse with Buddha; in which is
wealth, the tours of insight, a scent captured as amber.
