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
Yes.