Esoteric

I found us at war—so young this force, both cursed with a blessing. We wrestled secrets—this mirror in time, as confused by Lightning; to peer at souls, this wonder of origin, where neither speaks of this motion. It borders laughter, while unaware, where the sacred becomes carnal; but rapture mourns—the souls of men, as caged in this holiness; to meet us by gates, to ponder the forbidden, where an outcast retreats. It’s a breastplate, sentenced to eternity, where rhythm is slowly structured: this force in men; this trembling soulquake; our seconds outreaching centuries; to die as we stood, that tribal beat, to rupture upon impact; where chi was stillness, as something morphed, where two awoke an entity; this tactful whisper, the riddles of manics, as to examine a bit closer; where soil is dancing, while harvest is singing, this event the mercies of eyes. I found us at peace—so brave this fortune, a bit too sleepy to claim reality; where drawers would open, as lights would flicker, a man to examine Spirit; this numberless symbol, this immortal breath, as to find it in all mechanics. So much to have perished, with need for soothing scars, if but a moment our love; but life is sickness, unless for wholeness—this word treasured as holy; to find that face, or the back of a skull, reaching as to touch the touchless. It’s a rabbit to a wolf, or game to a hawk, or revelation to death; to touch the touchless, for he must descend, if stars must witness ascension: that wisdom for fools—that comfort for fools, that reality chasing hearts; to have that second, this wonderful catastrophe, as it uproots a series of beliefs. I found us naked—grieving for closure, grasping at something invisible: the likes of bone; the warmth of signs; that something trekking hemispheres.