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Derick Smith Sep 2014
My Beloved speaks profundities
      and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
      stumble falsely drunk.

Though His wine warms my heart
      and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
      I am not subject to it's dance.

I drink too little, too less
      for the drunkard I claim to be.
A venture into Sufist imagery

— The End —