Powerhouse (Pacman Remix)

Listen to Powerhouse by Richard Charles Stevens (Pacman Remix)

Listen to Pacman by Power-Pill

No greater ado—than one hard body pulsing for two,
Burning blue with the truth in our eyes.
Awakened anew—ever hastening to
take a dim view; imbue with diffusion of light.
Cells transfused with the movement of fluid,
Each echo is fluent,
Each ebb and flow chimed,
Particles far divorced of arbitrating bind,
Neither par for course or quite so trite a way inclined.
No greater ado—than one hard body pulsing for two,
Burning blue with the truth in our eyes.
A powerhouse—by all accounts
Built upon foundations sound;
On sacred ground, it towers proudly
Draped around horizon stoutly
Nothing is static—Each pulse enigmatic,
Propulsion emphatic,
No beat systematic.
Reprieved of schematic,
Unforeseen such heedless boundary;
Emblematic in a sense,
For it activates all ten.
Kinematic not to force and mass misspent,
With the motion of the ocean—of unbroken dreams remotely dreamt.
Remembered no collapse as every synapse circumvents the broken shards of hearts redressed of circuits masterfully meshed.
No greater ado—than one hard body pulsing for two,
Burning blue with the truth in our eyes.
Awakened anew—ever hastening to
take a dim view; imbue with diffusion of light.
Cells transfused with the movement of fluid,
Each echo is fluent,
Each ebb and flow chimed.
Particles far divorced of arbitrating bind,
Neither par for course or quite so trite a way inclined.
Merging the surge of two ultimate versions,
No updates or fixes,
One continuous ellipsis.
Shifting like slick mist through quickening drift,
In the slipstream of kisses written deep into the lips.
Through each sinew, nerve and tendon
Not a rear view more resplendent;
In procession of the essence in our keep.
Two masterpieces meshed uniquely;
Pooling hearts which beat e’er fleetly.
A powerhouse—by all accounts
The architects are We.
A powerhouse—by all accounts
Built upon foundations sound;
On sacred ground, it towers proudly
Draped around horizon stoutly
Nothing is static—Each pulse enigmatic,
Propulsion emphatic,
No beat systematic.
Reprieved of schematic,
Unforeseen such heedless boundary;
Emblematic in a sense,
For it activates all ten.
Each echo is fluent,
Each ebb and flow chimed.

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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