The Formidable Age Driven By The Sky

 

The formidable age for the baking in the sun to begin brings about a thirst for the hinges of time to be broken.  Formfitting is the ease of the plains.  In the inch of laud dresses up spiritual bodies with feathers and cream.  Long gone are the days of glory when all minds fester up to the deeds brought about by their own cognizance.  However, the most thoughtful glory of the winds reward is in the power of the whole when the sum has been quenched by their own inner light.

When shall the night breed its own drive when hours pass along the graveyard.  I build up my longevity with song, and base it on the light burning in the sky’s eye.  For it is the pinnacle from which the clouds wring out anguish.  The angels pour their sorrows upon man’s heads, because of the battle so fierce in longing for the cleansing of the souls.

I’ve never been upheld to statues built upon a week word, but there have been times when the fires simply burn out, due to lack of endurance for creaky bones.

Forever be driven by the eye in the sky.  Thick walls keep out all voices who ask for their turn around the wheel.  However, the drive which holds them near runs by the tracks, and waits for their train to arrive at sunset.  Their long days are torturous and binding.  Only the lucky seven can drink from a holistic fountain.   In doing so, they obtain credence, if only to cumber the dead who stored their muses in song.

Spirits of the damned by wile in the night.  For their rawness of heart is carried through to the lives up above.  They are no longer stringent, but the nine journals holding the pages in faith dance in the hearts of the meek.  When shall I crease my brow in humble trades?  For it is the measure by which I walk.

When looking up at the distant stars, I’m sunk into their streaming light.  It carries me off into unknown worlds yet to be discovered by mankind.  For there are lives within a light, and worlds within a world.  It’s only a matter of drinking in vessels upholding pureness of heart.

I’m not the hunger broken hearts long for.  However, I’m the graveyard where scornful realms open up.  They wait to be explored and danced.  What is a dance but a miser’s trade.  His music echoes on through my mind.  I’m am but one flame lit by many sunrises, forever embraced in a drifters spirit.  For his soul bleeds out liquid god; pureness in its own right.

By the powers his fold takes in on their quest for rain, all shaken hearts continue to beat.  Down roads filled with seeds of deliverance, there is a lasting light upholding all who strive for ignition.  On banded lands come erasure of might when the drums play on in their beat to man’s heart.  For it is their power shielding abode from tyrant means.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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