The Watchtower and the circles of pain

Just before this ecstatic dream you came in here
my guardian, my nature, a nude flight to play with
while life is gazing inside the shadows of the garden.
The chaotic backgrounds of history
are calling out in circles of pain,
the powerless screams whisper through the light
of the solid breeze,
the waves are beating on my blue eyed windows,
the hard resonance of the lost ones deep inside.
The memory is emerging like growing mountains
beside your warm infinity.

The volume of my system restoring the cold information
in wireless snapshots of discontent,
it’s scanning a grey area with light balls of purple fire.
“Don’t give me no black magic”
it’s a vulnerable construction
swallowed up by a small heart of suspicion.