You touched a button. You made a point.
The temple is full of spirits, seated neatly.
We lean into deception, filled with pride, uncertain, moving with motion.
A man will change everything, a woman will nurture his change.
The epitome of silence is passionate neurons, scratching, clawing, if but elation, alike to mania. So
great
the fission, sweet dolor ecstasy, blood blue diamonds. Sublime doctrine, first courage, before humanism.
Unphysical alchemy, tangible but unmeasurable—they call us mad, knowing our scars, living supposed lies. So pictureless, tender nectar, chaste and unclean—such prestige. We yearn for you, so screwed in pains, to have ruined what God might ordain. The bowels inside, shapeless, for it would never cross galaxies, never confront mystery, never ache as it does. The chantress
is
voiceless, appearing in voltage, too much revealed, it was never hidden.
Such marshweed trekking.
Bold deliverance.
Hyenas dream. Cobras dance. It was hellish. I’m weird. As points, it felt good. A lost man, a disenchanted woman, we wonder what in farse they’ve created.
