It was emphatic and it was sewn into spirit and it longed for closure. It started in what we call, freedom, it debuted in a cave. Such axioms for beginning spirits; such depth of pain for established souls. To love Father is to worship in agony to resist recrimination—as intractable persons, nay, to dig deeper, to feel maelstrom, as joying pain, as at an impasse. The study is an art—a greater accomplishment: sullen by holy hands, angelic by misery’s paintings—a cluster of emotions, a ruby in spirit, a countenance belying what traipses beneath the surface. As an absorbent soul, mystic onus of mind, to have met in utter surprise—aloft and with motion, soaring into spheres, etching at reality. It was eagerness, concentration, others were elongating meaning. The word is so tainted now, but it was “cultic”—as in hidden, disputing and debating with itself … borrowing. It became mystic in weaving the enwoven elements given to contradiction, Word found purpose in us. Such would rival for redemption—bereft of absolution, fraught by interior hunches; nothing in assertion, everything in what’s written, across a lasting spectrum, notwithstanding, all has come through humankind … we lean into the fatidic understanding—by ocean, land and seas. We depend upon excellence—of presentation, artistic exposé, cadence and faith. By lived expression—to fall short of indomitability—to feel granted redemption, upon souls and hierarchy. We profess 100% of both divinity and humanhood; we sense what is said; we deny humanhood. In seeking, a spirit will come across phenomena—in seeing, a soul will need to confess—such clear nebulosity—pure disclosure, peppered by some ethereal strain … in deeper accuracies … in magnitude, finding reason to believe in community, tenets and faith.
