I love alliteration but I have nothing to repeat. There are all the pieces, but there’s nothing to complete.
All the words are present, none of them are heard. I feel about as capable as a wingless bird.
Darkness is my candle, it never needs a wick. Silence is my language, it never is sonic.
The sky meets the ocean in a horizonal blur. You can linger there, with frankincense and myrrh.
I’ve heard of places lately, where things are right and wrong. I’m sure along with that, there is the short and long.
Good, bad – beginning, end; they simply do not cease. Always splitting things in half, assuring no real peace.
Out beyond the right and wrong, and all that just divides. Is a place somewhere far, where all that grief subsides.
Just purity and bliss, to make a perfect life. A risen plateau as such, which doesn’t accept strife.