It
flickers as flame, as abandoned to souls—this notorious feeling; to conjure, The
Ghost—that far embedded, to bless a young swan; where pressure looms, as nerves
shiver, at that point to vomit. It couldn’t be real, this something, impressing
upon lips; this marvelous being, this angel of dungeons, as spoken in
colloquialisms. I stray to fall, received with justice, as one that’s destined;
wherewith, is pain, this fever of souls, befriended by joy; this marvelous
love, at times for absence, as obedient as Christ. It was mere a spark,
therewith, a volcano, this inner boomerang; to nurture wings, a fledgling in a
nest, that closer to soaring. Oh for patience, an office of magic, as mystic as
summer rain. We see it vaguely, this outward expression, a stranger to a
mirror; to float to freedom, this inner web, as to realize God; this cryptic
nature, to claim for freewill, burning as a fuse. It couldn’t be real, this
flight of energy, to grow into a tsunami; as found in passion, this odd
character, to hold it together; as never to speak freely, for such is death, to
lead by expression. I heard your voice, hereto, stressed, while begging
forgiveness. We must relent, as to turn from injustice, else repentance is a
ruse; this frantic confession, shrouded in lies, as awaiting to do crime. It’s
something to feel good, fully at fever, swarming through mothers worldwide.
There came a soul, tatted with indifference, to thirst this flush of Spirit;
wherewith, came a friend, to let loose in faith, as to capture darkness. We must
confess, this inner mystic, as yogic as boomerangs; where spirits merge, to
soar for freedoms, abandoned to this distance; but peace be ours, this inner
stage, floating flame through forces.
