Something Has Morphed or Gone Away: Shall it Return?

There comes a release, this disappearance, after years of struggle; as not for clearance, but points of growth, where demons are eradicated. I’m hesitant to speak, for fire erupts, where waters have become dry; this type of majesty, arguing with forces, wrestling with brains; that needs to interpret, this ground of mediums, this sense of nothingness; as casual airs, that art for waiting, as needing those engines; to court a dove, or flare green eyes, or uplift a swan; this patience by psychs, to see it at that moment, as to become that very essence; this old endeavor, where perfected with trials, those encounters by measure a convergence. I’ve lost a ritual, awaiting a new growth, this space of middles: that grounded soil; those mystic roots; this type of healing; to touch a face, or pet a vice, as letting go forever; this dream of visions, this cycle of pains, this demon on a hiatus; to appear with time, as retreating with treason, where brains grow strengths: those type of tentacles; that anchor by crane uplifted; that psychical prayer; as hearts emerge, those inner sub-brains, to effuse souls; that resistance, as sheer explosions, where a countenance is altered: those neurotransmitters; that power through us—as communicating that centered person; to court personality, or conjure his ghosts, that vigil by candle a revelation; but more to joys, or something akin to, this valley by meadows a forest; where souls cry, as feeling distorted, while spirits mingle with cousins. I knew a feeling, to lose a feeling, as said feeling is arising: I knew a ritual, to morph beyond, as to arrive within a new ritual: its colorful madness; rashes as bloody red; this fortress by minds a mirage; to see existence, this dark claim, at points, a miracle; where mothers dance, that outer ballroom—the belle in their children’s eyes; as broken but whole—those inner needs, at war with faint positions; as something leaves, to find for comforts, that thing that causes evils: as loving that life; as catching infinity; as sworn to mystics. I fretted tumbleweed, this curious nature, as to fathom its origin; to see us tumbling, alone some desert, to approach an oasis: this fevered mirage; while tasting waters, to appear abed that feeling; where life has evolved, as to enter dimensions, this next phase of lights: this traumatic slant; this golden reference, those peaks through minds—an evolution!—to see our hearts, beating upon wires, where cages open—that type of magic, to drop our souls, as to arrive a fallen miracle; or more illusions, to offset machinery, where a false image becomes a detriment.