Deus Vult!

Weary of concoction, the strain of aeons grips split momentum
Exhale the embers of contemplation, let the spirit escape the gaping mouth

Like a brooding Leviticus, exhausted from restriction
A self-imposed oxymoron wrapped in reclusive defeat
Nothing is in the intellect that was not first in the senses!

Renunciation of all value and indeed denial of existence entire
For shame or boredom of the immeasurable atrocity which has grown from simple dirt

Bleeding superbly in frantic acts of passion
The whimpering voiceless sound insinuating speech
The voice which will not deny it's grace to all who are obedient.

Retire in solemn cold, to end of ends on tired paths
Complete polar dimensions apart from the current state
Not capable now even of memory or lack thereof
Under its own regimental development,
Governed by chaotic form, lacking in no opportunity to grasp the message.

The chilling Logos thrown waywards and accumulating in dank corners
The creative word flung about and receding piece by piece