…and what of predestination? That ineluctable arithmetical circular progression, self perpetuating across the longitudinal cycles of the modulated groaning creature. We call the Universe or simply with astute modesty, the perennial Mind of all godhead.
Inward, concentric wheels, great spheres churning in the tangible waves of Dasein, now made into volumes to break on the edge of the Earth and her imaginary boundaries. Elaborating their unique differentiated substance to the imperceptible and inaudible limit of an electrical quaking.
The which on lamenting his or her sad personal past, periodically with a deep tormented sigh, cries out for a futur bloody ethereal vengeance: a just and viable providence, which would in spite of all the calculated outcomes that could be mathematically permissible, using the table of Blaise, with a very personal eye to alleviate the infernal distress that taunts the eternally embedded ubiquitous spirit. All in anguish. All in a sigh. All in a Solitude. Lodged within the cavernal recesses of a profoundly rooted human soul.
Vanquished, alone with a broken heart upon the spleen, by the great deep blue empyrean sky.
Battling with the tender burning bark cloaking the winged Walküre. Exterminating the pestilential blight that would rust the invincible armor.
With the maiden’s brazening hand grasping all the while, the felled warrior to the floor on his illusory distraught heap. Sifted thru the seeing look that ponders its own hot rays hitting the bottom of Mimir’s Well.
After an embrace. A death kiss. The sober visage blackened in the twilight. Yet all enthralled. Now a returning god perhaps, abandoned. On her quick revolving Wheel, feeds more time to death and its entrails.
Would the awesome soul now fallen carry the fierce mistress or be transported thus to the great wound at the stellar roof top raptured by her light. Kiss her with his dead lips, the incendiary furor however, still asleep for carnal eyes.
Marry her warlike supernal sensuality. Transmuted within the diaphanous bowels of the super luminous skies. Those seemingly plagued overreaching heavens that laugh up on high, beyond the stained & engraved psychic carvings worming through out the physically stellated soul.
This destiny is not to be unspoken, nor to be writ on some sundry soft corrosive matter.
A beacon in the primal head, destroys what pollutes the higher vision. The snow now falls. Melts. All eternal calamity is now banished, this the simple pauper passion, elated.