The
sun has met the sea,
for
souls to unravel, to lay eyes upon glory.
The
tribunal is inundated;
favored
but questioned;
we
need for more.
We
give glory souls, to tread cobblestones, conversing with lions.
We
fly this night, restless but asleep, raging for answers. The
earth
filled with shrapnel: an evening of dying, repeated in majesty;
where
fires flood loins, adrift a tragedy, to perish in ecstasy.
We’re
frantic souls, threshed in turmoil,
but
a seed upon a cloud.
The
mind is legacy, as biblic as transcension.
We
want
mother’s
kiss—this journey through mind-terrain
—intimate
as marrow,
as
cogent as experience;
for
something lives, to identify life, as mystical
as
feltless winds;
to
see beyond color,
the
resonance of souls,
a
center floating through
mirrors.
There’s
a space, an unwarm segment, for furious growth.
Such
is
tension,
to
separate chaff, to winnow souls.
We’ve
cried gravel, filled
with
patience, to lead
for
creative.
The
future's aware, of
flame
infusions, to swarm a soul:
felt
inspirited,
for
felt alive,
for
a moment come sorrows.
What
for
this cycle—as acute as death,
an
effusion drenching psyches?
