Through ions of prayers the curse might uplift.
In seeing music, in sinning in private, in fretting esteem concerns, love might make a wrong turn.
Love was signaling. It was quite a pyramid.
Something died a little.
Rivers rush into seas, if synonymous with souls: Love was colorfully gray.
A great maelstrom sets in as it dissipates: what is meaning, as in itself?
Purified waters, wet spirits, above to see a sparrow.
Luxuries feelers, sensing skies, if sin wasn’t first beautiful.
Sweet nectar. Flippancy. Agitated winds. It will never arise to where it could be, parts of death have become the poet.
It will never again flow freely, it will perish unfamous, one will be proud.
Soft sung sorrows; roaring ringing; forced into self-consciousness.
It will never be beautiful again, nor organic—it will ever be meditated.
Let seeing eyes be charged with peace; meant to mend eternity: each soul undergoing existence.
