Grow My Hope

CHIEF end easily submerged, thrown to margin amidst
SWIRL, the bruising pace of sense’s inflow, reel of world and me.
SHUSH, frantic welter of accidents and trespass!
OUTDO them, Salvator Mundi, grow my hope.

Panic

LUCID,
MAGMA is not; a blazing red and orange shimmering force
SLIMEs its way towards us while someone screams on the
AUDIO.

Variable words

AUDIO, medium ferrying truth and saving knowledge,
LUCID words arriving, welling up to transform the arid self–yet medium also of
SLIME, or
MAGMA–not for redemption, but to trap a soul and burn joy to cinders.