Me amazed or you transmitting intoxicating, heady fragrance? Believe me not but, there is something unique ... shining in you. Attached to me is a misplaced soul-craving hunger and thirst for it. Yet it is nothing but a brainwashed superstition lurking inside every corner of my brain. Covered are the eyes of mine and they are deceiving me with a picturesque figure standing tall in front of me. Blurred am I ... Is that even me on the mirror?
Drunk by the blood of the saints, carried away by a long-haul speed-of-light journey to the farthest supercluster it could never reach, gripped inside the palm of God I can't control subversive little things which have been happening to me, and day by day the walls are crumbling down ... kneeling down in awe of your mightiness.
But ... you've changed. The vivid being inside the frame is being secretive. Yes, I know it. That nobleman from the east has stolen it from you, hasn't he? Yes, I can tell: How the dark, circular couple at the centre of your iris responds to the contact on your twelve? How the hearing organ welcomes his gentle voices? How you ever wave to him, but not to me? And how your primal instinct tells you through the speech of your living tissue? ... They are clear. As clear as a cloudless sky, as sizzling as newly-spewed lava scorches everything on its path, as blinding as Little Boy landed on Hiroshima and Fat Man corroded Nagasaki, as raging as a Chechen rebel trying to overthrow the Federation, as deteriorating as fire burning California and as sorrowful as the mourning demise of Pope John Paul II. Your Skepticism.
Drunk by the blood of the saints, carried away by a long-haul speed-of-light journey to the farthest supercluster it could never reach, gripped inside the palm of God I can't control subversive little things which have been happening to me, and day by day the walls are crumbling down ... kneeling down in awe of your mightiness.
But ... you've changed. The vivid being inside the frame is being secretive. Yes, I know it. That nobleman from the east has stolen it from you, hasn't he? Yes, I can tell: How the dark, circular couple at the centre of your iris responds to the contact on your twelve? How the hearing organ welcomes his gentle voices? How you ever wave to him, but not to me? And how your primal instinct tells you through the speech of your living tissue? ... They are clear. As clear as a cloudless sky, as sizzling as newly-spewed lava scorches everything on its path, as blinding as Little Boy landed on Hiroshima and Fat Man corroded Nagasaki, as raging as a Chechen rebel trying to overthrow the Federation, as deteriorating as fire burning California and as sorrowful as the mourning demise of Pope John Paul II. Your Skepticism.
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