A bodiless faith, woven into whispers. It appears before sun-spoken odes from down below, making home to the ill and old.
His soundless words are laid in sin, in the space within, the gaps between eight holy ends. In peace, there’s no air to breathe in.
In a turbulence of still, his bodiless weight lays heavy on them, carried by a structure of matter-less men.
Count to ten before you begin to swell.
Volatizing minds that make them sole, water is lost, man is gone. A little more before their blood boils, forming bubbles from his bodiless words.
The maniac wrote and his words led. Doomed under the weight of his bodiless said, only he knows his heaven is hell.
People are caught falling.
They’ll fall once again.
Bodiless faith, rest away, my thoughts may reside here.
If you don’t see why you’re meant to believe, he won’t give up on his ways. For millions of years, they’ll be remains, drifting with the face of the same bodiless faith.