god isn't all back-talk,
but why do we ignore?
again repeated to save
the sleeper;
why not save yourself?
what may come after? and,
now writing by guided
half-light of morning;
purples hues, and
incandescent colorblindness
of a growing dawn.
drop your shoulders,
quit tying knots throughout
your back; how
can the Holy Fire strike
through layers of caked icing?
fucking wash it away,
fucking dust the flour
from your hair, attempt to
self-(lost the next word)
to remember
you came forth from nothing
to be gifted self-determination.
and realize, even god is cyclical
upon our dimension;
wane to gain,
return for praise from yearn.
there's fear, if only
because there's reality.
chills through spine, radiating
outward under skin; this is
melody's echo chamber -
hyperbolic time chamber in metre.