I
hear it, the such of particles, screaming the rain; it’s rarely intention, to
cause for panic, else for conscienceness. I know of you, a giant in the
kingdom, to share with but a few; and I know of you, a secret baptism, helping
where others failed. What for life,
the constant struggle, to wrestle an inner god; for it’s more the struggle—for
grit and glory, to feel a mistype. Oh the metaphors, to speak the esoteric, a
simile near the bridge. I barely run it, to feel for pressure, a need to rev
the Lord’s engine; and there you stand, with a precious few, and friends of
humanity. Was it us; to land in glory, the story of a manuscript; where only
gods, could channel ghosts, to soar like whales? I questioned much, even moral
structure, to realize self; to perish slightly, a dolphin’s ache, flipping
beneath the waves; and this is love, a different grit, to wish for
blessings—the scope and brains, the sight and flame, to feel a volt. Is it
evidence, this deep conundrum, to type and suddenly feel?—where pain is segue,
and joy is compensation, to ask your true names. I heard you—in silence, to produce an album,
that something recording our thoughts; it’s truly passion, this inner maze, to
converse with entities; and yes it frightens, this love and grain, to meet you
eye to eye; but this is love, a human race, to chase the demons; indeed a
trope, for deep mechanics, to worry for children; and earth heard, to portal a
light, swaying through charm and vengeance. We never would, to scare for
thoughts—that entertain self; that inner beast, probing self, that closer to a
mirror; and life be told, the waves of angst, to court a moment of
clarity.
