Tuesday, November 27, 2012

The Chapel

We begin, start at the bridge formed from
 a substance that is, in fact at both times the
most formidable of minerals my blood allows
resolute, indeed, in the evenings and much so
hearty and firm and bold in the quiet mornings
the bridge is the link, the line, the path between
myself and the esteemed chapel of Matrons
 as such it is the attachment and connecting
the bonding, joining, linking structure that
gives the chapel and myself the privilege of 
each others efforts and wants and requirements
I, the owner, captain, lord and master of the bridge
who by my will it is given purpose to rise and now
enhance it's efforts and prolong its structure in a brazen 
show of strength of not only character, but of indeed
the very essence of what makes is the post pure of 
the male for that I reside and take the greatest efforts
to embellish with every waking breath that I am allowed
And so, at the base of the trestle
extending over a massive chasm
of perhaps of fabric waters or maybe
arid overpasses that give way to
the pure majesty that is the gate
indeed so, for the tip of the bridge
bulging in comparison to the rest of its formidable length
extending outward to the warm, damp interior of the esteemed 
chapel that is made to house the inner most precious of thoughts
housing a number of idols, so crafted from a first hand knowledge of 
the figurers that they were made to represent and be made in the likeness
of, its is this that the bridge, the tip of which pulses into the gates, with
a measured, paced cadence, the likes of which flows
a material the is both vital to the self of mine
reflecting my pride, but also invigorating the
inner most corners and crevasses of the
this chapel so precious, yes this
material is most addicting to
us both the chapel and 
to the owner of
this bridge
Connects into and is gives warmth and purpose by what is the most delighful of wonders in the world
the wonder, so ripe and wonderful, so raw and bare, so much nesseary to the beating of my heart it is
untill my dieying breath the epacenter of my exisistance, the end of a pligramage that begins
with the courting of paticular soul, entrancing by way of the eyes and alluring by sounds of
the lips, the lips florid in color, reaching pitches of high heights, the melody of which leads me
to scowering the frabic seas of, toilings the grasseslands through, voyaging and scouring past
the worlds lands capes and villages and towns, all in the hopes of passage and admission
for it is admission into, admittance inside of, and access to that give me most pride that
I, am worth enough, known of great enough renown for, comforting in presence
so great to the master of the gate that I, a humble man, can be granted permission
to bury myself inside the dignified, decorated and distinguished hall of
a place that inspires me to acts that I consider molded of passion
passion that filled me from toes to eyes with an energy that if
I could but harness at will I could curse myself with perpetual
continual states of, never leaving, for indeed when I am in the
Chapel of Matrons, it is my greatest fear to be removed from such a sacred place
It is, a place that I dream of, spend hours of my days fantasizing about,  I have
in the twilight of my morning, afternoons, night, evening and all moments in
between, wanted nothing more then to drown myself in the depths of this chapel
in perpetuates my mind and causes me pains to leave
I can see it in my mind and as I ponder I can
smell the walls and the intoxicating air
I can feel the damp floors
sense the heat coming
from the
tip of
 the top

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