No Vexen Zibe

Spirit invocation, do-er of a thinker,
the performer of the unseen,
manifested in a scapegoat of skin,
with no other destiny than to die.

Wait here until there,
second only to death,
the spirit invitation,
forbidden for the dogma.

I cannot catch my heart,
departing.
Years and days until enact,
cut of silk yet rusting.

Smashed up, shwashed and lost.
Driving fires summoning all,
only a few ways taken:
The summoning spirit insails me.