The downward spiral echo
of residual souls, catapaulted
from moonlit folds
of form against form
imagined,
half-real phantasms,
siphoned inward to hold
the explosion fault
at bay,
requiems for cancelled
stings
reverberate as
a note tumultuous,
recognizing skin-harmonics,
rip and rupture and
hold betwixt
stasis and entropy and
temper him from
gift release
...
'till he stitches himself
back together,
a beakon, resonant.
Comments
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makes perfect sense to me
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Im glad you did, cuas i didn't entirely get it when i wrote it... Actually, if you could help me out with that, it would be much appreciated
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