Transient peace, of a quality of mercy, pervades my prevalence of duty, or requiem,
commits my subtle being of self naivete to underscored tumult in exacting a true spirit,
a “gamblers luck dogma”, that collides with my ration that “I alone” make the high road
a veneered stratomaster to heaven’s gate. The farmer of sticks for kindling is my resolve to be heir to.
The fires are furious with knowledge of vanity’s loquacious dilemma, the truth serum of gargoyles,
piercing glances from hindsight, trembling sanctimonious hallucinations. Obliquity of finality is rust,
and that is my saving grace. Farewell my canon, take to the northern lights,
the skies of requiem never bled so true. -Sinz