It
became a dream—this marvelous dream, as deeply unseen; to fashion legacy, this
linage of souls, graphed into God’s makeup. It must exist—this touching of a
dream, to bid us wellness; where hearts are purple, as vivid as valor, this
external voice; to harness pride, as merely a vessel, chiseled for other’s
perfection. It must be real, this inner castle, as definition for faith; this
firm experience, as to wrestle introjects, as to practice Gestalt tactics. We
mustn’t perish, with so much to give, as radiant as four-hour-prayer; but
there’s a death, leading to perfection, as to live invisibly; where there’s a
death, leading to reprobates, in dire need of confession; but there’s a dream,
as lived as forces, guiding us to eternity. This immortal dream, founded in
concrete trials, lavished upon with abstracts. Our feud was destined, where
anger trumps what’s righteous; wherewith, are gifts—the agonies of existence,
probing a mind of liquor; as to mention sobriety, as barely a memory, to
indulge her daily; this space of fullness, this marvelous soul, as vibrant as vajrayana. We took to madness, enchanted
deeply, a secret for every truth; herewith, was partial, to living in silence,
as giving but fifty percent—to live it blindly, but deeply angry, with our
reckless selves; where self has done so much, as to ruin self, where blindness
is priority; but there’s a dream, this inner paradise, trekking through turmoil;
as there’s a dream, scribbled in symbols, as sacred as silence; to live it
boldly, fevered by chills, the winds of darkened trials; as born a giant,
unbeknownst to self, as humble as Marshal Arts; to pardon pain, this plural
manifestation, to acknowledge a series of destinies.
