We Die the Walls

I soar a Fountain: and thirst the Ghost; and speak the cries,

For mother dies; and much the love, a mind of wars; and

Much the heart, a field of geese; and thus the fox, a biblic

Verse; and thus the soul, the spear of Blood. I’m torn and

Floored; a soul of ghosts; and tension glows, a phantom’s

Flame; and much the Light; and much the sword: a screaming

Wound: a silent Stone. My sphinxly dreams, a blazing cult;

And torn to fly, a priestly coat; indeed a song, the woes of

Faith—to harness trials, the pangs of fate; and fire waves, a

Wailing cry: the breath of tears, a need to fly; and born to

Fail; and born to live: a deadly storm: a breath to give; and

Heart to soul, we trek the curse; and soar the waves, a mystic

Thirst; indeed the Light, the flares of Paul; and deepest grain,

We die the walls.