The sound of falling death

My thoughts drifted upon blue and rain. I couldn't grasp a thought and I truly wept in those moments. I felt the tears soak my thighs, in that back seat. Flickering sounds and lips crying. Sweetness of coffee from my opened windowed. Rolled down; all floods in. The exhaust was the same and I knew in those moments where I was. It were as if choirs of those I hadn't seen, spoke to me in their song, my mind a congregation of church goers. Salvation seekers. Freedom, maybe all this was for a reason and I would find out here. My tears flooded joy and the consecration like the memories of the basin of my yearning release. Questions that were asked and I never gave the answer to conscious thought. No elevation or mind. I had to look beyond myself and try to find something. Sensuous. Warm and safe the world's tunnel, her she, seemed in those moments. I pray that in the thunder and that hail, I would find that illuminated electricity flood my surroundings and I would finally see that which I had come to seek. The discovery and the reciprocation. Beyond which I had come, here and now. Beyond the very nature of my phantom being. The ego and the personas I had created to be at one with the world. To finally understand where I had come from. The reading that I had conducted to really grip this cup of reality. I am lost. I am found. Panting exhaustion. Do I or will I ever really? I have reached a point beyond myself, pulled back. The phantom I know and the one that lurks in my soul. The one that words my thoughts and speaks in silent duress. Control and submission. I have put myself in shackles. Understood beyond myself and not fully grasped that being, not really tried. Am I the creator. Thee creator. We are not in control.
-And then I hear the sound of falling; piled high silken cloth. The coroner to my rigamortis, the maid to my little death, For I only want to die a little too. My curve and my be rest, in my sight such a form, I am sinking silence and seeking the essence of my own self. The singular form that took my being, exponentially grown. Alas I am beyond repair. There are no ticking clocks, all time slow and stop – I am stuck at twelve and the very nature of my animal. No longer contained within a ring. My hands reach further to The song of my tearing heart and the illuminating of my soul. That connection, the feeling to witness, that something far greater. Lunch. The meat prepared, I the shudder and that tremble to prepare to be in heaven and wonder – The helix form within the spiral of death, the loud silence. Senses elevated upon the aroma of our cooking, that sensuous flavour that sensuous; it is, something more from the very quake of that shudder I prepared and I see the light in your I. To know that food's too die for, upon that summer's morning – I am imprisoned. The horizon of our setted sun and the glare of jewels – seas that my happiness contained, I feel the sweat of the day – that day of work. The vessel of my soul and it is buoyancies pirated. All with the soundly comefort of my silken cloth, upon to spring and our regression to our previous forms. Lost in our own oblivion, oblivion ecstatic and oblivion miraculous. Touch and glide, Porcelain rocks and hands caked in snow, frozen to a core under the light of a full moon and the flash of my setting sun. This is a landscape I know too well with a light more than star-crossed lovers; arms crossed, legs crossed lovers in the grips of contact of I's Of exquistite design in perfection, sharing the same glass of white wine. Essense poured, a cup overflowed. A cock does crow like the dark knight, on his snow covered landscape; He knows too well the rapturous ecstasy Within and where his sun does rise and set.