The time is evident where hell forms into heaven—an ache in charms, a requiem for the living. While voices open in chant—some delicate feature might appear; to have loved a petal, to have danced by chance of arts, such waves over serenity. With adoring some creature of the dice, to wonder of trancelike ascension, accused for a time near its base—curving into self, apologetic, measured by endurance, such a casual way of asking by graces. A cursed element, a holy type of curse, rinsed one score and two-million times. To have loved unbeknownst to souls, raving as it happens, such Mesopotamia mystics. A man to his infatuations, uncured through existence, infused for other reasons, so great the first inclination. By arts to lust for freedom. By caricature to sense the tragedy. Each life akin to something in motion, realizing as we do, in love with epiphanies. Those feelings suffering from atrophy, to harm its reflection, where a woman will prune her mirror. Days in meditation. Years in hindsight. Each world carrying over nine lives, each one trying to fix the latter. Such mistakes, debating texture, cured in one final leap. Soul of my soul: spirit of my spirit: pure rhapsodic contradiction, fallen to rise, rising to fall—certain liberties, facing repercussions, at some calamity, such warming pash.
