The extent one is willing to go might suffer a deficit. (One jasper rose. One resurrection.) Existence is by rituals; tender rites, permeated seasons. (The leap might prove displaced.) At moments with comforts, lashing out at self, flogging an inner sanctum. (Neat pangs; repetitive differentials.)
So soothing a voice—angelica lungs, so battled inside, longing for parts and pieces, never complete.
Say it plainly. Or say it in Latin. By ecclesia; coming around full circle, always a mile behind.
Many persons of stature; many dissatisfied. In needing what releases to wolves. A feeling alike to abeyance. If to carry atmosphere; if to plant a prayer.
By meter into solace, each undulation filled with yearning; gray areas, jasmine petals, a melodious scent.
Withering images. Imaginary mirrors. It comes to disbelieving reality, while chasing reality. By treasured substance, aloft essence, aloof breath—those cadent cries, fretting awakening.
With coming back—there’s an admission—made subtly; thrown away, into a universe, rekindled in time, loved beyond comprehension.
