A fire Trickles—Midair

We perish the flame. A fire trickles—midair. I fall, an endless
Porch. A lamp has spoken. And so many dreams, trampled
Nigh hell. I stumble, glory—a mere glimpse. The scars court
Death: the bars cry mercy: and Spirit, sculpts love. The hurt,
Once so magnificent: the pride, once so deceptive. The heart,
A cave of ghosts: the soul, a well of prisons. I’m lost,
Trekking tracks: I’m found, wooing Spirit. Speak the pang,
My love: pardon truth. For life, a web of storms; and hurt, a
Haunted house. [Selah] A fire trickles—midair. Something so
Precious is dying. I long eternal, a groping heart: I yen the
Light, afraid to feel; and something so precious is dying.
Speak the pang, my love; and pardon truth. She’s a harsh ballet,
Impartial to circumstance. She shuns emotion, stoic in her
Address. But we perish soft, in need of mercy.