I
can’t find it, that feeling, which speaks of legacies, castles and fevers; that
miracle of words, chasing an inner being, dripping from lightning; that
thunder, pushing through waves of activity, fond of psychic peaks. I can’t find
it, to watch it manifest, to unlock dungeons, where sentences morph into
legacies, and ideas charge the idle soul—with treason; that season for moments,
drenched in swan eyes, where passions become bankrupt, and souls become this
foreign mirror.
I
can’t find it, that supernova, streaming through galaxies, flexing muscles,
warring through intellectual pyramids; where levels speak of sorrow, and
childhood traumas, to become an awkward adult; that realization, to see for
unison, those tenets that are found obnoxious; that inner sanctum, charged
through repetition, the resonance of words; where being soars, the caves of
mind, falling through sounds—the Aum of an inward passion, flipping through
flames.
