Ideal Idele

When the unfamiliar room sat, stained with silence,
I thought about those questionable troubles, and those so distant wishes, to be morbid in myself,
as I favored more than morbidity itself.
The faint sounding of reality outside the crystal lit glass echoed repeatedly,
as though they were to match that morbid detail of worry, in my mind was just worry,
fondling together with the past thoughts, which were slowly leaving,
slowing being replaced by that turmoil stop, the one that rumbled my soul.
A soul that was intended to be pure, ordinary, or grasp some respect of normality.
The soul I now burden as my own, corrupted way beyond explanation, or phrase, as I phrase in the best way I can.
My soul does wait, for peace, nothing more.
My soul does wait for the peacemaker, nothing more.