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I Am Santo

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This structure bitches cross-depth, mortar interrupted like sin on Sundays, the finest structure of faith the loosest kind of failed brick against nature. Arrogance is faith in anything other than roots. Blessings tear at peripheral high-standing. Were there lovers in the cracks then maybe it stood a chance at permanence, but chaos fills like rain, motives freeze and schisms become chasms; oh how the efforts fail in the face of such nature. Love is the tangle of sky-reach. Hate is the upturned leaf cupping surfeit memory. Spill away and flood, the demons of yesterday, until the challenge of indifference drowns every space between what’s been built, moves skyscrapers like paper boats and delivers hymnal serenades to crestfallen hopes. Somewhere the fears of destruction fester in the strongest brick; the memory of stronger origins seizing the calm order of now. Byzantine crumble inevitable, veins and arteries scoff at finest designs and love destroys, rebuilds, collapses and endures among the furious plans of men believing in themselves, their blueprints drawn for better tomorrows when their hearts craft with each beat the fiercest miracles of today. Revere nothing toiled upon. Believe only in the unreasonable clutter of instincts, for they are breath, laughter, climax and tears; they are connection. Air, water and salt given dreams, elements threaded with soul and loosed with supernova passion and the infinite histories of forgotten suns inhabiting every atom. “Go,” they instruct and, with devotion as simple as listening, hands steady, eyes close and time buoys the welcoming, the open, the alive.

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