In your temple, you rewrite me with glass letters, infinitely breaking me

In your temple, you rewrite me with glass letters, infinitely breaking me, And I pronounce the mantra of forgiveness, like a saint in the agony of purifying ecstasy. Her voice vibrated, a flame in the storm, signing with the pain etched on her face, Her finger trembling toward itself, a lost guide in the labyrinth of withdrawal. "Why do I return to you, after you've walked me through the hell of suffering?" There's a psalm in me, echoing, polished by the intangible dream of an answer. Her words are like gashes in flesh, the sour of indifference cutting deep, "I'm caught in this turbulent circle, where I can do nothing but welcome you again, Even with a broken soul, knowing all too well, you will step into the sanctuary once more." A metempsychosis of longing, in a cage of time, where your shadows heal in their wandering, I carry my dream towards you, passing through the moon's fleeting multitudes. With each reliving, a penumbra in the cutting wind, a tale with blackened pages, Understanding with a tacit gleam, that your gates, even shattered, always wait for me open. And so, a ballerina in the masquerade of renunciation and rediscovery, I step into the round of forgetting, My spirit, a tapestry soaked with torment and aspiration, fluttering in the eternal story, With every redemption of fidelity, the dance grows tighter, pulling me away from silence, But I refuse to close the gates of the heart's understanding. In this pantheon of the eternally slumbering, where twilight brings no amnesty, I trace the sparks from this fateful detail, with a heart like a butterfly on an altar of forgiveness.