Can we ever know ourselves enough?
Is there a visionary within our thoughts that cannot contain itself?
Or is the hideous heretic heart within our chest beating too fast to stop to snuff out
The white tapers of racing hearts and spattered blood?
In the meadow there lies a house
That sheltered my feelings and lust.
Open the door to consume my thoughts.
I don’t know why but your prose prowls in my brain.
Saner minds would be driven away by the rain of the fury in those letters that remain.
After furious editing, collapse the idea,
Show a hidden valley while hiding the secret carefully concealed,
Bring emotions to a fever pitch,
While cooling the soul it seals within every word, phrase and radical switch.
Until thy passion is a forbidden realm fit for snow giants, Thor and Loki, Odin’s sons.
And maybe Diana shall visit you there upon the moon on which she shines so fair.
Glancing down at Endymion as her heart bleeds the moonlight she has to spare.
Going down to Lemuria, do you dare to explore that hidden land of despair?
Let the visionary of thy mind be thy guide in those lost lairs.
Spelunker of forgotten realms that no one seems to care.
And if you go to the Nightside of Eden,
I will come with you with great speed then.
And if thy birthday is spent alone, may this gift guide you to a second home, in the mind of the muse to come.
With hideous heretic hearts this cycle was born,
And with them it shall end.
But may this gift soothe your lonely hideous heretic heart, and heal it once again.