أَعُوذُ بِٱللَّهِ مِنَ ٱلشَّيۡطَٰنِ ٱلرَّجِيمِ، بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ
let me take a moment, relate to one who might visit, share what it is He composed me of, before life tries taking it from memory, thought and lyric as fading wisps into the night air, a hive of turbulent emotion but its surface emblematic of serenity. all i am is a series of holes, like the paths bullets might take, shot into a shirt, or if stars were rockets diving down on my earth from the skies, that is the pattern of my cloth, the substance He composes me from, all the pieces of worth and joy and hope, never really settled into being from my own atoms, but instead they came from the ones He brought me to know and fall in love with, whether as brothers or the purest of lovers, they are who i'm stitched of, but then He unwound me from so many of them, often a thread at a time, He made it appear as if time were the thief, but i know it was Him, my Creator, Who brought them to this slave and then vanished them as if they were ether, i would shed tears for each of them who He's kept distant, or silent, or veiled from knowing i seek them, but most of me is desert, at present my sole oasis is the Gift He gave and somehow kept tied to my existing. oh mortal beloved of mine, brothers and lovers and kindred, i will find you all again, one day iA, whether on this plane or the Next, i would glow brighter as soon as i beheld each of your presence, but for much of this road, i have only this small lament, that my cloth is holed and unfilled, potential tasted and perused but untouched and not fully known. this life thinks to bleed me dry, ah the irony, has it not seen the garments my soul is clothed in?
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