Flyleaf

 

Trying an upbeat tempo—sunshine on a bad day—praising to become humble.

Theology upon crucibles, thrust by Christ, pierced in flesh;

become for souls, polish spirit, abandoned to critics, to imagine what a shadow looks like. And Love filled with light, demanding an audience, fretting if unloved;

a numbness to her, fraught by flowers, running against triteness, banality, a certain surge, addicted to excitement

… indeed, it all wears away, try to adore that, with music revving its engine.

By collar comes debt, by knowledge comes responsibility, by sorrow comes depth of character.

Needing you, keeping quiet, moving self into an umbra;

courageous pangs, hydrant eyes, a crush becomes a situation.

Try to realize an inner diary, try to function like humans, deal with reflection;

a flight to hells, a nursery of memories, the crib holds a future.

Posture tells a story, as life speaks its saga, coming to light, adoring light, unknown by you.

A theme these days, can’t announce it these days, most hate to speak it these days;

chasm of arts, bosom of souls, fevered, gallant, in self, deeper than life.

And filled with voice, reciting ghosts upon flyleaf, trying an upbeat tempo.