You’ve suspected the vexing absence of smoothness or symmetry in the cancerous shadows that engulf us, a blind ivy invading even the most heroic masonry. One only hopes to collect the hopevein’s blood in a grail and preserve it in cryogenic crystalin slumber until the splinter reposes into black sawdust blowing east in search of smaller photons. Then with the thawed blood of hope we may nourish some manner of armor-petaled flower leaning toward secret sun.
Although I tried to resist commenting on your comments, I am weak and cannot. I love the idea of “thawed blood of hope” and “armor-petaled flower” and “black sawdust blowing east in search of smaller photons.” Thanks I think.