It’s Been a Long Road

That spirit of vengeance, everso this night, a mystic must arise; this venial sin, as to scar a seed—our dreams frantic for deaths; to see as levers, this instinct is man, as clever to assail sentences. I spoke those bars, as jarred by lights, ever again to do likewise. It slammed to shift, as repented that second, to return to a settled space. I could but laugh, this deep levity, as choosing to endure this lot: this beige swan, as mothers cry, while fathers redeem those lights; to have this purpose, to hear those names, as cleaving to one more war. It takes for time, to cleanse a slate, while one is generating controversy; as peace with worlds, is enmity with God—to hell with fixing infinity! I sat in silence, pushed as Mechtild, this inner vernacular—to cry as mystics, this lot of rules, as we often turn on our own; to send that voice, as quick that sin, to repent instantly; to feel that shift, that leap from heart, as an inner person increases its milieu—as born to this, despite those charms, as wise this person’s indignation. It sounds absurd, this inner theologic, prepared to un-clue—this season of cries, as more for solidities, while deep at convergence; this minute event, as never so fast, to have outwitted myself. It takes submission, as cringing this force, while to believe that souls are alone—this vest of families, rooted in Christ, to outlive this life—as bolted to futures, to arise this body, as seated at mother’s tribunal; to plead for mercy, this curse of wisdom, severed from darkness.  I blessed a soul, to outwit rage, invested in a rose of futures; to arise a mystic, floating through space, to enter this gated crevice; to hear this soul, as pointed towards knowledge, this human forsaking his will. I realize pain, to hit it with kindness, but arts are vicious to moons; to see for lights, this wave of crosses, to ask that question of redemption; that written name, scribbled in spirit, as opposed by carnal law. I saw a life, to have that vision, as painted into miseries; this force of woes, this joy of times—our missions a bit riven. It took for madness, of not that choice, to ask redemption from One; as not from them, as holding grudges, to die that place of Limbo; so more to lights, while shifting wars, to ask forgiveness.