Souls of faith, ideologies, & souls of silence, traveling cages, breaking science, leased to this universe. I never said much, kneeling at night, swift into rain, moving like flame. I can’t fathom what history has done—ghostly souls, impermanence; changing in motion, resistant to days, living in part darkness; the faithful, the meek, to wonder why it requires certain properties. Religious souls—abiding by tenets, culture, & temple. I see pictures, immortalized souls, historians, painting portraits. I see dandelions where kids chase, imbued with faith. Some are upset—seeming neglected, chasing incense. Right at concerns, gazing intently, hoping baptism washes it all away. Such great hunger, rougher rides, conversing with the deacon. Ironclad deaths, pricked fingertips, religion seeming unhuman. If to believe, to move a mountain, to witness miracles. Warm ice, purgatory flame, watery fires; & bleakness, covered by lusts, needing to express a part of self, self-talk slipping away. Souls of faith, grace of Jesus, plagued by science—the art of motion, swoosh into a room, a person over yonder. Too much. & it comes to haunt. If most would fathom it. A true debate, a truer pain. While spirit trickles across a page. I never asked, I begged, if to give parts back. The cauldron boils, spells are cast, souls are stirred; willingness pushes, outcomes are gray, suggestion moves waves—most died begging, ancestors befuddled, plagued to the grave; true devotion, fervent prayers, sweating with chills. I would float in vision, told a trance was bad, if but to hear a whisper.
So carnal inside, mixed with holiness, probed by a running future. The skies seem vague, unanswerable, made possible in memories. Such wanton vibes, unless part traumatized, unto feeling hebetated & numb. Most are feeling dreams, chasing visions, made alert to folly—it then becomes sin. In parts many are affected, faith racing, to believe with all one might become. To happen upon a secret, to become addled, to negotiate inside. The mind registers with itself, rearranging ideals, finding reasons to hold old ideas. Looking at noetic spirits, lavash upon a scream, favored by winds; wiser these days, still confused, faith was once so neat, a formula, haunted by innovations.
On fullness, at goodness, it would feel beautiful; at a petal, eyes newly born, possessed by purity—energized, feeling holy. Cherry blossoms upon high, gardens on earth, combined some way, walking a nearby grave. Unto hells, battles, the end of a cycle.
