The Devilish Qualm

And there, painted and playing in sweetest frame is the timeless province. There, suspended by the arches of axiom, with sputtering brushes of wielded coherent structure. I drown upon spearing fear in the devilish qualm, splintered to scattered scree upon the wuthering face of this old, roaming sphere: in continuous form and bristling invariance. Here is one soul stripped of fire's bite. I have my tools at hand, extensions of my form; yet the tendons are emblazoned, threatening to break upon the simplest gesture. I dare to say that I do not live: I am suspended in a desert where life once drifted. I once was electing Truth but am now spirited into hushing, principled in my lightened travels.