A third born cleric,
Lost in the spiral of desolation.
Healing all that exists in awareness,
Fearing the internal blossoming.
Holding in his hands,
His white ring and the other a red ring.
Trembling in the ethereal.
Simplified hands, overlaying concepts collide.
Collective control that cannot capture coal inspiration.
Smooth skin hides bruises, dare not seen in the light.
Forever left in his medieval left-hand mind,
Caught right in the middle of the right side society.
This cleric not so chaotically placed,
Slowly his gaze is imprisoned, pink.
Restricting his collective control,
Indecisive primal needs over mental utterances.
Unable to fight the sluggish enmeshing.
Ring of undeniable status,
realizations of the void of the mind.
Broken circles once separate,
now whole complete.
The collective control weakens even more.
Screams of holy sin clutches, clerics attention,
Dumbfounded by this duality.
This sanctuary of this illusion illustrates ill intent.
That activated his will to fight, feverously.
Slinking into doubt of divine fear,
Of the constant care of the cleric’s hands.
Their intertwined wholes of the parts,
Of the immense rhetoric of the design.
The Cleric chosen between the two,
Heaving the Cleric back and forth.
Grasping in his hands unknown,
the connection in which he damns.
Staring at all the ring(s),
Fighting for knowledge,
Fighting for pleasure,
Fighting for innocence,
Fighting for saintly acts,
Fighting for everything,
Fighting for Nothing