seconds constitute and construct
life, plans aren’t askew inside, the soul participating unknowingly. many semi-deaths,
gothic religiosity, hierarchy is filled with praise and doubts. such bubbling
pains, sheltered, catering to hostilities, shattered echoes, the soul’s condition.
rule one, are those wings; rule two, are those screams; rule three, is pure
ambition. to decode the quarters, kneeling with cadence, traveling through tempest.
the floating contempt, the wretched curse, the wolf in the howling, at gray
matter. so sainted by unction, tasting raindrops, toes sealed in mud. much a free
spirit, running with distress, freedom becomes a curious prison. many sunbeams
upon waters; wrenching percentages; at odds against gods—the tombs we carry,
the ventriloquists inside, the puppeteer at war. the mime is ruined, the
orchestra is amazing, souls are bathing at the river: professing faith,
protesting the rotten earth, needing what hurts.
