Prayers are no meditations for your begging.
Pretending you're embedded in God’s will,
Aside salvation: The eternal momentum to
Chant a meaning; his second-hand revelations!
To bear witness the next three digited centuries.  
And what if the burst of colors was in my head,
From the crowns walked a plank to confess
A halfpiece of bread, and a wine-full of blood
In your heart. What knees pristine, uncalloused!
As if uncrucifixed to the privilege of delusions.

A heathen! Me?
You're mistaken, my brother.
He is definitive in my eyes! And upon my words,
Our Father sees me as he sees you.
But I see you not as Our Father does.

For when you're lost then, do you seize deceit?
Because the latter excuses were amiss
of validations from other Holy spirits?
Or is it, you're paltrier of a servant unrequited
By God’s manifestation of an ant,
Born inside an indecisive man: crying—begging.
Fate and God and spirits and fortunes,
Whatever fits your pocket, fits with lies.
Lies that begged to know a little paradise.
It's all abstract! A profound persuasion within.
Numbers ruined the origins of your skin?
You don't know? Where's your resolution then?
If one beseechs one more trivial permission,
When does the life of purity begin?
And if one doubts his God,
Is he not permitted to sin?