It
couldn’t be you, this inward awning, this moment of refuge; to suffer thoughts,
as one afraid, purposed as the greatest worth. I turn this walk, this inward
brooch, this trinket, this ornament, refined in fiery trials. I come to you
pulling, as some sort of demigod, one founded in virtue: to outwit the tension;
to embrace the laughter; to harness such discipline. It couldn’t be you, this
inward chorus, this tender keepsake. I feel you seeping, as relics to souls, this
indwelling sanctum. I feel you hiding, as tired of the pulling, this indwelling
angst; for it becomes apparent, to question our minds, asearch for one that
aids the furnace. It’s mainly idyllic, founded in a thought, to feel your
heartbeat—as deep intuition, grounded in concentration, even pressure through
our eyes. You impassion a force, to induce a soulquake, to charge this inward
arc; as such is needed, this bleeding imprint, alive but bawling; as such
reticent love, a fever spellbound, planting indelible feelings; to paste a
wall, with sheer undulation, starring heavenward; as through telic eyes, this
dreamlike dimension, this cosmic symbol: to have for souls, this congenial
scar, able to reach a myriad of souls; as gruesome inrush, to fever a castle of
knights; at odds with self, courted in a dream, to awaken to human flesh; to
irrigate hearts, a cistern as a mind, pouring into the potter; as one so vast,
this surreal mantra, engraved upon soulbeats: that infinite ruse, to set free
the arms, as challenged by this inner woe. The matrix is flawless, designed for
combat, where two pull at wings. It’s a dazzling affair, as effulgent as
sunbeams, as faultless as love.
