Padded desolation, betwixt the familiar and the foreign.
Glinting light-swords from the highest source feeding freedom.
Form is related to the concept
if the concept can be attributed to the Form.
I beg the question. Let us take a closer look.
Nothing grows from nothing, yet the desert thrives.
Spawning death from lack.
Breeding death from lives.
The Poet is alone, though his words are pervasive.
Despite the seeming emptiness.
In spite of all reflecting sensibilities,
regardless of his need for certain energy...
is to feed from that source and give color to stagnation.
But the Poet is a Wall Builder.
He can stop the world from seeing...
from believing his truth.