"the pieces fit" a poem in free verse

In exodus,
they walk in the sour sweet,
immense schism,
to piece the reason,
of the flow,
of the unconscious strings,
that grasp the taste,
of the tongue,
that absorbs,
the treatment of the greed,
that circles,
in perfect wish,
that he has formed.
In a vast resolution,
to leave rings of growth,
that trace the age,
that fits the atrophy,
of compassion.
Fields of unopposed,
reduced amounts,
of the lovers,
that fit in the shards,
of tiny broken hearts.
Who have come back,
to the silence,
of the fear,
of who he is.
Hands of their preconceived implanted response,
to his second guessing,
of life,
that crossed the devil.
That has been lifted,
as he believes,
on the chard shadows,
of his soul,
that have been stacked,
behind his eyes,
beyond his shadow,
now of gold.

They have split apart,
in the wasted burnt charcoal,
opposed from her juxtaposed,
in a silent circle,
of a perfect fit.

In minds that hold,
the love,
stacked in bricks,
of gold,
by the fairies,
that revere her soul in his and what shall become,
of the myth,
of the undeniable,
belief of the unbeliever.