Wage

In the vast expanse of forgotten time, the now balances on the strings of eternity, cryochron-ology of the doors held ajar by the pasts frozen wings, now in a great flapping, like an Angel unknown and unveiled for a great thing, like the reap of the whirlwind, making ready for a King. A storm brews, a tempest of ice and fire, burning secrets, like a desire, in spectroscopy mapping. Ice crystals twink- smug in their formation, a wink mirroring oblate- to the heart's icy hesitation, having acted late, but there to bless this day. Waxing the waned who were weened on lies, to whom where beneath the surface lies a burning flame of truth that never dies, feeding the yearning, the eternal plane, in-play of a whole new game. Where fault lines the palaces moating d'jour. In starlit nights, when silence takes hold, when darkness covers the land, the word will bloom, unlock hidden doors, in its passages, solace, amore, to swoon, handmaidened at hand. Like a cascade of life down a mountain. To stir hearts key,- turning gland, with hydrate potion, like ocean's endless shores, that rinse the bends to reveal new creations, appearing as no beginning or end. And when darkness veils the world with its shroud, Love will shine a light force, fierce and proud in the halfed blight. Battles principalities, resonating rebuke of righteousness deep within their decay of cavity. With unerring reality, resurrecting hope to humanity where too much despair has been. Cataracts flow, like rivers untamed, their power derived, by a forever unnamed or defined, or as to why they culpability blame. A world transformed, a landscape of the unseen things. Where icy rivers flow with raging stream through madnessed caverns of insanity, demons embedded like diadems, themselves in it's canyons, the clutch of frigidity. Taken amidst the chaos, where a possession's voice is heard- stirring void, with every turn maw's precipiced cysts of jaws crushing cistern against all laws. But the language of the redeemed ghostwrites the heart's yearning, echoes a fire of the bright and Morning Star, burning, like a censer, in sonar, forever returning, from the isms of Hell's Magnetaurs, where it sends them horror, Holy Avatar, silence. Them that have left their first stations, to hide in their screams of tare, their ultra-violence, begging to be made a statued oblivion, instead of entranced.In Christ's Basilisk stare, horror paints dreams of Man, Somere.