Content Me, If You Would

an a capella of sinful verse as intro,
then the song of ages begins to play,
a serenade to this conference of familiar strangers,
and, o, how my veins thrill to the sound of those gospel truths
hummed along elicited receptors to consecrated need,
sweet, sweet substance need,
which centers upon a refined hollow of wept materiality.

and, in offer of respite
from the steep incline of torturous agitation,
you lay upon me a coarse vernacular,
a language with which i am knowledgeable,
though your dialect and diction are—
prior to this engagement—woefully unknown,
and further, in search of the spare,
you make complete my elegant casing,
a superficial extent you serve well
with a falchion of sainted yearning.

thus, we arrive at the beginning of wonder,
privity and insight, approval and commendation,
closely after which rhythm follows,
the chant of the possession, the murmur of the yield,
a joining trip of the light fantastic,
and into that bargain, come the various catastrophes.

firstly, the encroaching tide,
a flood of sensationally hued waters channeled of a soft parting,
secondly, the shift of the tectonic,
the lines of fault stemming of a staggered and quaking heart,
thirdly, the celestial burn,
the zenith of the fueled core,
and lastly, o at last,
the coveted return and its penurious successor,
blessed surcease, hallowed cessation.