Areopagy

The body is a temple, I have heard,  
But my temple thoughts often lay undone  
With order only in a shambled word;  
A fragment desiccating in the sun;  
Ossified rune blocks in matrix mass  
Panned and pored for any valid meaning,  
In spun facet, by magnifying glass,  
And ensuing syntax reconvening
To again ordain purpose to my brain  
To tease from fracas thought a new notion  
To fusillade the wit to ascertain  
A way to shape that dreary commotion,  
Doldrum psyche, into lyric glory...  
With nothing more than my verbal quarry!