The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So cursed it seemed, aloud to perish, seeking everlasting life: immortalized in scripture, as someone read it, a spirit leapt in; a terrible beauty, a fantastic frenzy, by grace, by knees, by ink; with rivers flowing as witnesses, with skies opening, with deer leaping—so casual unending deaths. The beat becomes sickness. The goodness in us—an ability to change; the illusion in us—an inability to change. There’s one universal dream, in becoming renowned. Such furious beginnings, mid the anger, such rapturous spirits. I turned left, saw a sight, need more the confession. I was born to a religion, absent on understanding, needless to assert, it's communal. I’d save readers years in battle, to spread the news, but the chase is amazing. Last of a flock; seeking where wolves dance; compelled—and negotiating each fleece aside goatskin.
