A Thought Mystic; and What of Mania?

I cry mercy, misunderstood. My life—a cinema: my grave—
A pest. Speak of love, my moon and crest; and ponder grace,
My soul and vest. A tooth is loose, a scented wave; and courted
Grey, a silent cave; and manic hearts, roam the land: a mystic

Light: a cultic hand. I dare the flame, a mine of coal: a stream
Of rocks: a featured soul; and perish twice, the lice of growth:
A feeling sore: a cryptic pulse; and fathom pain, the likes of
Fish: a haunted breath: a dying wish; and mind to crash, a need

To rest: a pearl of love: a ghost to flex. My haunted friend, a
Subtle fox: the world is torn: a torrent vox; and paint the scar,
A color red: the drip of blood: a demon fed; but feel the earth,
The womb of grief: a need to pray—and tame the beast; and what
To Give, a box of words: a Spirit dearth: the worth of worms; and
Thus the wind, a fitted page: a proper thought: a needed flame.