Critical mass approaching in stoical exploding of feelings peeling off with the old flesh.

I'll cry myself to sleep if not just to keep the memory alive, thriving in the spite of a dual life fighting itself for its rites to righteousness, where the opposition is also right, in purifying infighting, for a light so bright, that my fragile eyes shall burn in its embrace, a sound of truth so profound, that my ears numb in the pound of drums as i look on blindly and deaf, pointing at the cliffs you want so much.