Revelation

As foils there stand the spires of the sharpest temples,
Thrusting into the smooth celestial skin
And notching on the parchment the mere samples
Of criptic maps that guide the way within.

The obscure abysm in which the zenith sinks,
Bares no ressemblance to a divine dwelling,
Yet stretches a bright silhouette he thinks
Will never seem as bright as when he's falling.

The tentacles of thoughts fondle the cloud ,
Release the unshed tears that purl upon his face
From a strange eye he's hitherto allowed
To take for shut... numb to its censured grace.