Books are like flowers
Their words pollen seeds,
Carried far and wide
By all those who read.
With other words merge
To new life ignite
In the fertile minds
Of all those who write.
There tended, nourished
For hour after hour.
Encouraged to grow,
To once more flower.

Sin is just a string which we are all on
the more sin we commit
The stronger the string becomes
The stronger it is, the harder to break

When we are born
We have one string on us
As we become older
More strings appear

Pretty soon we become Satan's marionette
His own little soldier
Even though we reach this point at least once in our lives
We can always turn back to the Lord, Jesus Christ

Though the strings may be hard to break
Through the power of the Lord
We will overcome.

An  inanimate  object.

I'm  a  picture  hung  on  a  wall.
Hope  I'm  secure  I  might  fall.
People  stand  and  stare.
Like  the  horse  that  stands  up  there.
They  never  mention  my  lovely  frame.
They  think  I  am  just  fair  game.
Sometimes  they  move  me  all  about.
I  just  cry  and  sometimes  shout.
It  gets  so  lonely  sat  up  here.
Never  get  food  or  a  nice  cool  beer.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.