I’ve
grown this space, to live this space, my soul’s enigma. We converse; and ever
this life, as wild as inward silence. Let the chants be gentle, to see for
glory, even psychic incense; where heaven is motion, for multiple parts, to
disappear each level. I see a stranger; with bold a face, floating through
chakras. She’s mindful the night, a ray of enigmas, as frantic as elusive.
Beads
are rolling,
through
rooted castles—a soul to pardon grief. I hear her chanting, but far the
distance, as womblike as
trimesters.
Oh the closeness, embedded in crystals, as delicate as a vase; where sight is
near,
a phantasmagoria, a world sliced in segments;
to
which was granted life, the sooth of cocoons, a mantra in the soul’s gut;
to
fly this station—featured in instrumentals.
Brought
from body, as pure as essence, the substance of her majesty; where unto a
symbol, the deepest wound, to frequent a heart-cave; wither to, the mind as
ghosts, as featured in split parts; where spasms are indoors, a train upon a
cloud, to ask a teacher. She spoke curtly, as brusque as soul-waves, as subtle
as psychs.
I
saw a day past, where treble a heart, the tempo of ever; where mother
goddess—morphed into God, for gentle the light; into which, an asexual dance,
to chance the gates.
The
chants—to stream, to enter that dark place; unto which, a fevered fragrance, to
awaken cherubims; wither to, this ache of hitherto, channeled through
millenniums.
