There is more to all this,
And yet, this is how it is done.
Kyrie Eleison, a blur. From behind?
If only, I hadn’t chosen to swim alone,
That night; never meant to forget.
From where did these bellows,
drenched in static echoes, arise?
How long did the distraction gut sight,
That the Insipid presence that surrounds,
Arrived, too late to notice?
Unvarnished timbers, too close to escape,
Not far enough to be uncertain,
Sever a reverent staccato;
the severe timbre of a fierce bow.
Frosted in naked waters,
Garments of a wicked cold, encroaches.
Effaced danger palms the acrid delight;
Enter, with palms of Galilee,
The façade of ‘more,’
The one worth pocketing.
Clamoring to be heard,
mistaken for the herd,
the sermon longs for misty shores,
perplexed by soring vestiges,
but sure, these acquisitions,
no sore battlements can win.
The victory of you,
Is not from damnable I,
Damming the underground venture,
at cruel junctions,
Neither holy nous nor wholly noose,
But a repertoire to the noumenon.
And let it be No mistake,
No One knows, the One who knows.
Taken, not by my words, if satiated,
But the evil little vowel,
Dining on crisp reductions,
Delivering I to eye, eye from I,
Of what I have done,
And failed to do,
So the insolvent state,
Neither mine to give or take,
Relates the perpetual advent of you.