Blessed are those who seek the light, When the slipping past-time concurrent is Death-Throes. 

Kings and brigands, roam as whispers maliced carve through sleep-ridden eardrums. 

Flowing shimmers ignite, and pass over peer-views to shine a spark on tight-held secrets.

Glimpses touch you, embrace you, adorn you a glowing and seated lighthouse beacon. 

Blessed are those who breach and flicker.

And it is all 

still the same.