Triumph by Series

Such scarlet visions, probing his soul, to reach out to beauty; this floating castle, stricken with purgatory, this inrush of pure energy; as holy in content, while mystic at tiles, this ceramic daymare; while pierced at bones, afloat this mischief, to reason as one insane—for more those truths, this molten feeling, as poured upon pavement—that cry our love, a zenic massacre, our brains mush’d into nightmares; whereto, proud to sin, unless for cornered, as appealing those graces—this scar of souls, at war's effulgence, flushed through by tenets. We’ve lived closets, perfected in disguises, our fleece fraught with tremors—while born to chaos, our mothers rejected, at search that midnight forgiveness: We’ve begged mercy, this elusive force, our bane affecting our futures; whereat, this love, too rich for Love, as something at parts destroyed; those vicious trails, those tracks through dungeons, as more this fantastic sorrow; to hunt for arts, this amazing plight, where neither understands glory—amazed by courage, this survivor’s instinct, those bullets grazing through cymbals; that loud aversion, centered in those seconds, wherewith, this fire to aflame a village; this fount of powers, streaming as yogic that flight—this christic voice, as charged deeply, to ascend descension—where truth is passion, this clash with men, as effused through nights that trauma—or more descend through ascension, as curt to heart, adrift a thousand seas; that tale of souls, that banshee vanished, that death conquered—while more a triumph, discarding marsh, while abating misery—our lithic souls, at fulgent turns, pulling as captured by zeal—whereto, are trophies, that woebegone, as exploited for riches—to sing a drum-scar, that wound to zillions, this inner zenith—as stars come mourning, that fleet of nouns, as striking through eternity. We live as legends, this hawkish tribe, adrift her ether—to find for reason, that extent of pits, while clawing to trek high terrain.