Grave or ashes. Burgundy blood blue.
Like a dream to us, making proofs of love. So near, too close to act out sanity.
Rebel rites; a castle of bishops—nothing I could give—as ever enough. Noetic wiles; ignoring self—unto an ulcer.
To no avail, uttering potent words, it shall continue—vines upon wilderness, so close to it; and it was shaped, it couldn’t live wildly, it had to be tamed: we rarely wish it for others: as it generated awakening—tyranny inside. Slower decomposition; immortal vacuums; unthawing—a gift in veil, difficult transparency, future graves.
