Mystic Form, Spiritual Plight

Such ghostly texture: such plight. I collapse—the crisis of
Faith. And such clarity, my blemished soul; and such tragedy,
My sightless God. Thus confused, the ache of spirit, my
Faceless pain. But neural fusion, the pulse of light; and
Psychic faith, the touch of life. Thus sublime, the source of
Heart; and thus abstruse, my fallen spark. But hidden sight,
The flux of heaven; and depth the soul, the flux of leaven.
Thus we perish, the art of faith, fraught with pain, and sore displaced.
But crescent hope, the scope of prayer, trumps the angst of deep
Despair. And sacred vision, the word of God, prompts the soul
For love’s applaud. Thus the plight, a riddled maze, soaked in
Thorns, and sore ablaze. Hence the pain, the depth of faith, attached
To glory’s flaming wraith. And depth the soul, a torrid storm,
Fraught with panic, and mystic form.