In this Life

We’ve died freely, only to perish the heartbeat. And depth the
Fane lives a web of sorrows. But we relish the anguish of
Bliss. Such affliction, where joy comes in segments, and
Tears flood the soul. Thus pain, a hellish condition, a mnemonic
Mystery. It’s a tinge of grey, unto psychic screams. But
The Spirit is a hydrant, flooding the soul of faith. Wherefore,
An opus needles our hopes, and we dare infuse our senses,
Whereby flight upon the wings of passion! It’s a miracle, the
Poesy of God, and I dare tiptoe the web. But the mountain is
Steep, a picture wailing in the psyche. Thus wounds, rise to the
Surface, inducing panic, wherein we die freely. And it’s taboo
To challenge God, but pain is an infection putrefying the soul.
Wherefore the texture is anger, and the heart is frustration.
Thus the ember, burning aflame, where we dare cleave to hope.