Not enough was said, despite, the tome. Cathedral cries. Truths seem harder to uncover. And the roads are longer. I located artifacts. I measured seeing with something hermetic. I was unaware another was privy, restructuring an edifice, rebuilding a galaxy. I speculate in silence. To argue for you: crowns of royalty. Feelings become relics. Idolatry prevents functionality. I imagine a brazen wit, a compromised sanity: not much to assert otherwise. Maybe strong sexuality. Maybe a hint of profanity. Even a degree of depression. Ever we fix what’s broken! Such faith, despite, catastrophe. Tropes at times. Roses in dens. A neat summary page; a lavish tale. Sky bells and dreams, often unvetted. I remember a sarcophagus. I would peek out. She urged me to flit, to fly. Such philosophic color. A lasting testimony. Symbolic thorns. If to assert love, Love would laugh. Nevertheless, upon a glance, a soul lost sanity, scribbling a tome on Love. Such primal passions. A soul keeps reigns. If ever by a graveyard, an inevitable boneyard, to prophesy to those bones, such radical virtue, such extravagant faith. I imbued Love with majesty; based in my needs. I never loved Love. I never knew Love. So often first glances. A sickness in souls; a blessing in arts. To become with fervor those screams.
