What
turns the soul, Love; Is it beauty—the full measure; for I imagine the complex,
seated at a furnace, chiming with ghosts; but what for beauty, in all of its
grandness, surfing through perceptions: so chase a goal, where the countenance
dwells, and filled with lights. I often see, if but a glimpse, wrestling the
restless; to soar the prose, through multiple levels, to wonder of our gaze; to
churn concentration, ever to apply self, grieving the inhumanity. There’s a
subtle curse, to plague conception, to enter into madness; so we guide life, to
choose breath, the extent of our love; where voices measure, the future scope,
molded through influence: a mother blesses, where a sister honors, and father
consecrates. It’s painted vividly, where the curse is on us, to garner a
treasure. We’re known to fly, to grip for moments, engulfed in Spirit; the
looming waves, the inner caves, to dig a bit deeper; so know for love, the
wealth and woes, to culture an inner self; in fact to life, chase a goal, to
build a fortress. It’s ever us, and ever them, attempting to skyscrape; where
pain is chi, an inward vehicle, to speak about truths. It’s an introduction,
the flux of living, a part of heritage; to float through zones, to know for
joys, to cherish beauty. Some may hassle—the inner web, to point towards their
vision; and me the same, to ask of Light, the breath of this Spark; but
nevertheless, chase that thing, which gives life, to imbue the makings of
hands; to soar the lands, to soar the prose, to outsoar one’s visions; to
accomplish through spurts, the call of destiny, to enhance humanity; to be
free, the feeling of purpose, churned by the study—of life and death, that
inner engine, to scope through experience—the will of gleaning, the hope of love, the heart as realized.
