There’re
casualties that reclaim spirit, to ruminate in chants; this altered dimension,
to die the expansion—and return a new man. The old is dormant, a tepid spark,
requiring maintenance
—else
to flourish, even as fever, the destructive self. He’s somewhere that place,
the space of a billion persons, spiked in forks of fey; to cry these walls, as
one in a dungeon, to morph into glory. It couldn’t be the hands of anguish the
cause of such joy; to wonder of cycles, that instant climb, chiming with
fireflies; while for myths, as merely segue, to enter the rising future.
There’re
masters, to court for favor, the lives of the greatest legends; to see it
fallin’ the empty sun, as radiant as illumination; to wrestle illusions, as
triumph and scar, the fields flushed with mercy. We mourn the nights, to relish through
days, to see a bold connection; for it couldn’t be that all was made accept
this one thing; and it couldn’t be by him through him and for him, where
something sustained itself; else the beginning unto the end has a neighbor; by
which this neighbor has a life dependent upon itself.
