It’s
the mystic, my love—to soar and fly, to hear the whisper—a subtle prompting, to
eschew the impatience, painting cotton cloth; we love for Love, sanding
mahogany beads, rubbing through the texture; it’s ever the mystic, at the heart
of Christ, to read the red letters—where Love is burgundy, the ultimate trauma,
a courtyard of prayers. I see for hearts, to find my own, the lecture of
souls—and armoire tents, the voice of love, bathing in sunbeams. The Lord is law,
as mystic as Mount Sinai, a voice through clouds. It’s deep the arteries, even
synaptic gaps, as cryptic as the brightest glow; so read for wisdom, discern
and fly, that closer sidereal dreams—to see for spinning, to shift and sail and
stream and surf; for love is Passion, beyond for gravity, that deeper the
inward person—to soar and dream, a mental ballad, to harpoon the pressures; the
sound of operas, to sing to Barnabas, to summons Saint Paul—for this is life,
an orb within a psyche, to grip the shoulder of Christ. I hear for pride, to
know for soul, but rather for the inward God—floating and shifting, that closer
to home, to find it and lose for grip; for it ever moves, for us to chase, to
feel that moment. We know for hurts, and barefaced tears, to grab a
handkerchief—to sing through inner streams—to touch the front door, to open and
soar; oh the love, fraught with soulquakes, and soulprints, and the deepest
whisper; oh the mystic, to chime with
ancestors, to see the sky—for Moses and Elijah—where Peter was drowsy, to see
the glow, to ask of tents; but barely to see it, to chime as the Rock, to know
the pensive outcome; to hear rebuke, the thoughts of humans, for Christ is the
Songbird.
