This voice.
Moulding
A moving
Flooding honeysuckle nectar of voice
Echoing in the parasail of wind, white or so to the naked eye.
Yet the eye does not see it.
The breath of light's quivering flame, liquid and undentable.
May the fire not be weak.
She cuts with a wind like water.
Cuspate yet weaving gasp of tremulous gift.
A gift you were always given.
She is mistress, no, translator and guard. In love with her scrolls and scripts.
Written not by her, but cut and welded ever so smoothly as hot honey from the dewy petals that surround....by her.
Gathering the air's passions and throwing them in seemingly warm notes, with words of ice and tears that you know not the meaning of.
Not in translations that she weaves, but in the candle they say God has lighted.
Oh God, if there be no proof to the masses, I have little faith.
She proves a voice of magnitude and higher conviction than I see through dirt clothed lenses that eyes have endowed me.
Perhaps there is no need for the masses.
Seizing my Flame and Reason.
Purpose and existence.
She caresses on the chills inside me.
Her sucrose dripping light's color down my silent throat.
One day, perhaps I will quiver other's foundations as well.
Using no force, but just the elements I can so narrowly compare this sound with.
This soul that sends its MORSE on the notes we hear it with.
This melody and proclamation.
This voice.
A moving
Flooding honeysuckle nectar of voice
Echoing in the parasail of wind, white or so to the naked eye.
Yet the eye does not see it.
The breath of light's quivering flame, liquid and undentable.
May the fire not be weak.
She cuts with a wind like water.
Cuspate yet weaving gasp of tremulous gift.
A gift you were always given.
She is mistress, no, translator and guard. In love with her scrolls and scripts.
Written not by her, but cut and welded ever so smoothly as hot honey from the dewy petals that surround....by her.
Gathering the air's passions and throwing them in seemingly warm notes, with words of ice and tears that you know not the meaning of.
Not in translations that she weaves, but in the candle they say God has lighted.
Oh God, if there be no proof to the masses, I have little faith.
She proves a voice of magnitude and higher conviction than I see through dirt clothed lenses that eyes have endowed me.
Perhaps there is no need for the masses.
Seizing my Flame and Reason.
Purpose and existence.
She caresses on the chills inside me.
Her sucrose dripping light's color down my silent throat.
One day, perhaps I will quiver other's foundations as well.
Using no force, but just the elements I can so narrowly compare this sound with.
This soul that sends its MORSE on the notes we hear it with.
This melody and proclamation.
This voice.