The Swell

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Abstract

id="0f39">that fell into the lap of eternal rest — the stained glass burnished with the blood of the martyred Saints casting your fortune, framed you in an ethereal mixing of the blood of tears into a monologued theme.It rose demanding emancipation and there you were enslaved in visions I cast around the depth of an illusionary reliquary.I freed you from the bonds — the chains linked to the taxed arteries of my souls beating heart onto my souls undying memory —You rose, swelling over my heaving breast, spilling forth on the grounds of my young girls dreams — the mosaic cathedrals I saw in the deserted skies I renovated with pieces of sea glass, I gathered from the fragile shores of an ashen river and there my life gazed upon her image in a reflecting epiphany that denied its own complexity.And I

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a polyglot of many tongues chanted for you the prayer of Nekrosimos, dreaming you into the promise of resurrection in the unknown ethnicity of a forsaken God, and with my own tongue I prayed for my souls drowning swell, in the chalice of communion found on my souls road to Makaria.Where, where do our souls wander today, where?— when our dream denied us thirteen times before the cock crowed three — I promise on the swell of my heaving honour, the road to greener pastures — I will never deny you with a kiss,I received communion in your name, in the language only we understood, the swell of providence in the mercurial light that darkens my unconfessable alms on a dream that has lost its song — but croons nonetheless.Copyright ©. <a href="">R Tsambounieri Talarantas</a>.2020. All Rights Reserved.</article></body>

The Swell

It rose from the fathom of depths where the depths of an extradited soul takes up residency — of some childhood pathos I had selectively cherished away — weary it rose peeling away the walls of my souls hindered causeways.

It rose higher and nigher, nearer and oh so far, yet weary, it traveled relentlessly,

And there you were standing before me chanting the Dance of Isaiah — the promise of the liturgy reposed on the hopes of your dreams,

that fell into the lap of eternal rest — the stained glass burnished with the blood of the martyred Saints casting your fortune, framed you in an ethereal mixing of the blood of tears into a monologued theme.

It rose demanding emancipation and there you were enslaved in visions I cast around the depth of an illusionary reliquary.

I freed you from the bonds — the chains linked to the taxed arteries of my souls beating heart onto my souls undying memory —

You rose, swelling over my heaving breast, spilling forth on the grounds of my young girls dreams — the mosaic cathedrals I saw in the deserted skies I renovated with pieces of sea glass, I gathered from the fragile shores of an ashen river and there my life gazed upon her image in a reflecting epiphany that denied its own complexity.

And I a polyglot of many tongues chanted for you the prayer of Nekrosimos, dreaming you into the promise of resurrection in the unknown ethnicity of a forsaken God, and with my own tongue I prayed for my souls drowning swell, in the chalice of communion found on my souls road to Makaria.

Where, where do our souls wander today, where?— when our dream denied us thirteen times before the cock crowed three — I promise on the swell of my heaving honour, the road to greener pastures — I will never deny you with a kiss,

I received communion in your name, in the language only we understood, the swell of providence in the mercurial light that darkens my unconfessable alms on a dream that has lost its song — but croons nonetheless.