I have
no love like into silent sound—
waves
of chaos, pride in excellence—
the
death of the suffering, those miles
between
hells, by courage to arise freely:
unblameable,
made condemnable, or
off
into penchants, wistful souls, at
blank
verse, so moved to have sinned.
made
reproveable, born to condition,
the
dispensation of ghosts, or energies,
much
in tone with eeriness, uncanny
psychology,
streams into valleys, most
are
depleted; souls filled with caves,
darker
dreams, as it pushes aesthetic, an
existential
allegory, our wrestle with
buckles,
shields, colors, dreams, ink and
force.
the holy woods, the godhead of
the
mountain, explosive handwriting,
remarkable
calligraphy.
