The zealots of the word

Constructs build a fantasy palpable only to the prison it wants to live in. We stand on its pedestal, proud to commemorate a word given to be stolen in a whisper without living.

We worship the shape married to its boundaries to give us an edge that elevates our vantage point to dispel a need, creed, and greed born from a silent breed.

The poll erects high, piercing the sky with an emblem draped like the confines of a mischievous night spent in the corridors of restitution, wondering why, not imagining what happened, so it is so.

The beguile of this wilderness ravages its witnesses to a cruel smile that shares its vile unburdened charm to an unnatural order that claims everything below its border.

The zealot in us grieves in a moment without reprieve, we ask the word for an answer, and in its pristine curvy eyes it always renders the absolute a wonder so resolute that we are finished before ever getting started.

😢

Until the next ❤️ beat ~.~.~