Symbols of Prose

There’s saintlike beauty, such mystic allure, such effervescence; where ensoulment is crucial. There’s metaphysical particles, studded in experience—a memory growing limbs. There’s a hurdle, buried in skyscraping, our hands cleaving to clouds; whereat, are dreams, this psychic nib, this freshet of events.

There’s touchstone love, outreaching doubts, draped in silken thoughts. There’s pathos—siphoned by ethos, as shimmering in logos. There’s affection, as far gathered as facts—this external treasure; as glimmer and garb, this inner caliber, as emotions and raindrops; where there’s a parrot, this internal symbol, repeating a series of sentences.

There’s us—this fugue of waves, drenched in G-Minor; albeit, voiceless, we hear it in gestures, a myriad of reasons for being right; but there’s beauty, the steepness of an article, where attention is concentrated; and there’s Precious—a mentor of the future, a keystone effusion; to have but three moments, where life’s a symphony, as to outlive three adventures.

There’s ascetic tears, whereby, grounded in devotion—the treasures of illumination; whereat, are mazes—reminiscent of passions—this favored intrusion; to jingle an apparition, enamored with souls—this tremulous encounter; as to wither in beauty, and rise in beauty—this chaotic mandate; where life is love, a fusion of subtleties—this driven conclusion.