Cryptic Hoist

To fathom is to feel; and to feel is to fathom. Such chills: such
Mystic rills; and darkness—a holy trespass. She dines with
Crows: pure invisibility; and stares through self. It’s unto
A stampede—unless; and even then—the halls wail and screech.

The journey turns—a ghostly flame; and angels pierce—and
Demons sing. Invoke the soul; and trek the moon; and watch
The self—abate the war. But cryptic hells; and secret lies: a
Stagnant wind: a bleeding vine. The root is shame, even fey: a

Spirit’s pain: the potter’s clay; and gothic rites—haunt the mind:
A feeling bold: an inner chime. I reckon heart—a kingdom torn:
A vault of flame: a life to mourn; and cultic wars—a chosen few:
The dark of light—a sullen view. It wakes the fear—the probe of
Thoughts; and spins a web—as keen as hawks; but something
Lives, a compass voice; and something cries—an inner hoist.