Take a Sickle to Soul, My Love

Take a sickle to soul, my love; glean the core dry; for the
Harvest is ripe, mature for love. Whittle the winds, my heart;
Dance the elements; for the mask, a vocal storm. Indeed
My love, engulf the flame. [Selah] My sophic wave, the grave is 
But a portal, and life is but the Tao. Thus the grackle, sore
To sing the source of love. Hear the secret, the voice of flight.
[Selah] Take a sickle to soul, my love; prune the garden; for the
Undergrowth is wild, the daisies are suffocating. [Selah] My zenic
Star, seal the wound, and count the sutures, for every stitch,
A ransom fair. [Selah] Indeed my death, my flame, my utter
Resurrection, ours is a castle built upon Om. Thus we
Flourish, the vox of light. [Selah] My topaz reed, the fabric bled,
And sprang to life, the wit of fate. Hence the heart, a mystic
Flood; and hence the soul, a diamond stone.         
   
Vox=voice.
Selah=pause.
Whittle=to carve into, such as wood.