Like the angel who wrestled with Israel, eyes of desert: abandoned child; what your thoughts are now?
The hand that grants, the hand that denies the blessing.
Let me feel what you feel, let me teletransport myself into your cells: child of the dry caravan; dry are your tears now.
Geometric creature, sprout of a feverish Spinoza’s estival dream: eyes of desert: what your loves are now?
Late at night, on the hills of a world that never knew you; observing the lights of the Great Prostitute shining, that Nazarene of the eyes on fire maybe will bring you a star light.
Or will you be abandoned forever, like Jacob wrestling with the angel?
Fallen being, eyes of desert.
.
The hand that grants, the hand that denies the blessing.
Let me feel what you feel, let me teletransport myself into your cells: child of the dry caravan; dry are your tears now.
Geometric creature, sprout of a feverish Spinoza’s estival dream: eyes of desert: what your loves are now?
Late at night, on the hills of a world that never knew you; observing the lights of the Great Prostitute shining, that Nazarene of the eyes on fire maybe will bring you a star light.
Or will you be abandoned forever, like Jacob wrestling with the angel?
Fallen being, eyes of desert.
.
