He
lives the arts, to touch the forms, to enjoy the nectar of this fruit; there’re
glass aspects, to haunt for solid steel, as opposed to each emotion. The scars
are golden, for one to capture pain, that much to unlock; and there’s a swan,
the flesh of his flesh, the bone of his bone; so he wonders more, to sort
through skeletons, to examine mental wounds. Some accidents—are aligned with
fate, that closer the realities; for life is circles, filtered through open
love, to finally breathe again; and then the storm, the lust of peace, the lust
of God; to see it clearly, this jealous fever, to discount imperfections. He
loves her more, the libations of art, the spark of a century, to paint what was
seen. We enchant purpose, where purpose enchants us—for every decision. They
come to haunt, the very fabric, to challenge this nudging normality. He loves
her more, the timber of this flame, mingled with a higher love; to awash the
sin, to speak to mortals, to languish at noon. It’s more heaviness, a symbol of
fortune, a need to capture faith; for something lives, to challenge each step,
to provoke the kindhearted. Was it routine, for felt apostles, a need for a
christic carpet? We reckon not—the deepest anguish, shadowed in sunlight; the
circuit of love, painted in a sequence, to wrestle with hassles. The seeds were
planted, for one so young, to grapple with misfortune: the brilliant
heartaches, the sullen breakthroughs, a Kingdom of symbols; where perception
grieves, to set aside tunnels, to add logic to feelings; but there’s a graph of
pains, to enter dimensions, to hear sorely the opera; so more to Passion, the
timber of this night, an exposure to himself.
