he goes to church for the sounds:

reverent anapestic

(forev erandev eramen)

rumbling cultic through roof

and rafters then

succumbing to static

and stratosphere -

because so goes the universe and

conservation of motion.

nothing comes from nothing,

null from null -

and he's never been one

to give.

oh, my not-so-

tortured artist,

aching for an ocean

of heaving bodies, of

rushing breath -

a tempest in which to find yourself,

a torment

worth the ink.

if the body is a temple,

the mind a palace, then

my architecture

shifts

to suit you.