By sight, by courage; to seize feelings, so great its ray, so tender its betrayal. To have loved rites, by mirror, attics filled with spiders; a soul of inking collar, a chaser of screams, unlike a genius, thus, unvetted madness. To have stumbled upon church, silent loudness, abbots, nunneries, priests, bishops, a dungeon filled with trials, if by welkin pangs. Not meant, it cannot sing; allergic to what it loves; priding inside, humbled, aloof to itself.
Oh’ for a holy creature—those cryptic gazes; a man is made by silence.
In dying he might live. Such sweet cadence.
So inevitable those skies. Made naturally. To have always been; to have mastered breath.
Loving isn’t as one presumes. Many nuances. Several novelties.
Life is tantamount to invisibility, as in unseen, where it means eternity.
A soul has chased ink, vanished into spirit, softer sullenness, harsher winds, to see as it morphs, to assist in designation.
Such irony attached to it; so many opposite presumptions. A soul is pure, purged, at risk for perdition; into a mansard, listening to holiness, made concerned, destined for a kneel.
Such has been in linage, by what it means, to have become with great effort, a creature carrying terrible symbols. In communion to enforce a message, might be in straights, dire at points.
