There’s
a must this love, this condition, this know thyself; as esoteric this world,
rivaled by none, unless pointing towards God; so we garner approvals, a
language so simple, to exist as ourselves; this deep mirage, founded through
public eyes, unless to know thyself.
I’d
move self this portion of minds, as connected through raptures—to know this
deep self, wrapped in individuality, singing from the top of mountains; as
opposed to this partial freedom, where self is boxed—by a multitude of cages.
It
couldn’t be us, ever this certainty, in something that doesn’t sing within;
this position, missing parts, as evidential as mere letters: this hubris of
times, this outward condition, this fluff without power; where deep the scar to
breed the arts, this infusion of souls.
We
couldn’t ignore this bounty of self, this out of body experience; where we
couldn’t ignore this euphoric island, spreading wings, to suddenly bless a
soul; in which we couldn’t ignore, this feeling vibrant through heartcaves.
