Misnomers are current; arts are ravished.
In seeing it coming, too rare to claim it. Everyone is angered.
Life chirps; diligence makes for song.
A glass flows over: It must be perception.
The shadow of darkness: It must be reality.
There’s a dilemma between us: with remorse comes damages; with indifference comes rain; either way, suffering is immortal.
Life is its tragedy: we decode, decipher, and grieve.
To sense love becomes a war: to keep, to win favor, to mend at times.
To bring it to memory; to admit certain differences, to ponder how sin dies.
Too great a trespass, plus, a determination, coupled with motion, to volunteer once pulled in.
Elohim makes a spirit immortal, esoteria makes a soul curious, such sweet vinegar, a certain type of phoenix.
