I ponder the Spirit, my dearest communion, conflicted in
variables; while to outlive death, he’s a product of life, afflicted sorely by
death. We hear it in speech, this essence so far, to awaken to heart-flutters;
this tender wealth, as to soon explode, into a well of communion; while souls
feature—the arts of faith—these yearning sensations. I’ve died to live, as one
too heavy—this influx of introjects; as to claim for haunted, this seasoned
ghost, reluctant to retreat; where hell is nature, as joy is an offshoot, while
both pose as warriors; for this his week, as low as gravel, seemingly trodden
underfoot; as to feel this smile, this deep insight, where a demon is lacking
in wisdom. His soul’s a champion, as stricken with passions, gripping as to paw
for ashes. Our Love is rare, this inner commodity, but not as to be sold; while
time is slipping, as to mock endeavors—his essence screaming at a mirror;
whereat, are tales, this doglike pain, this gnarr for his soul: this inner
growling, this woman’s feelings, this space he can’t forget; as born to Spirit,
as to inherit Spirit—the war of this commission. The days have been long, where
I need to read, if only to escape; but bars are speaking, of a hellish plot, to
uproot this feral faith. I must take to pause, as to speak of love, this woman
the girth of his pain; where art is ploy, this thing of gems, wrapped in silent
sorrows; while demons swarm, these inner mind-plates, centered depth his
cerebral; to dig without mercy, this series of rebukes, while anger grows like flowers.
We can’t imagine, this secret world—where one is prone to agonies; whereat, are
scars, as shared with no man—this measure of private concerns; for time is
short, as to share with a mirror, this inner terror. I end with Spirit, this
capital Friend—that’s composed of two parts.
