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Crown me with chaplets of rose and lily
Have the chapel bells declare me a saint
Purity is shown in the olive of my skin
God and his angels can no longer wait
For my arrival into their kingdom.

The harmonies of heaven ring through my heart
As they kindle their fires and sharpen their swords
Their spit and rough hands don't take me down
As I am a temple as indestructible as the lord
"Forgive them for they know not what they do".

Like it took Jesus three days to rise again,
It took them three days to spill my blood
Here I lay, draped in a silk veil and wearing a gold dress
My soul risen as high as the moon, the stars, and the sun
As what the lord promised me.

I may not appear to the eye, but if you listen closely,
You can hear my holy heart's ancient melody

In your prayers.
This poem is dedicated to my patron saint, Saint Cecilia. A little background information about her:

She is the patroness of music and one of the seven women commemorated by name in the Roman Catholic Church. She was born in 200 AD and died in 230 AD in Rome. She is known for her chastity, preaching, and hearing the music of Heaven in her heart. She converted over four hundred people to Christianity. She was persecuted by the Roman Empire for being a Christian. She was subjected to many tortures. She was forced to suffocate in a bathhouse. However, she miraculously lived. An executioner took matters into his own hands and struck her three times [ decapitating her ]. Yet, she still lived for three days. She was buried by Pope Urban and his deacons. Many centuries later, officials found her coffin, and saw that her body was incurrupt. She wore a silk veil and a gold embroidered dress, like in my poem. Her coffin also smelled like flowers. Her feast day is on November 22.

You can look her up online and find many interesting facts about her. She is definitely one of my favorite saints. So much so that I chose her name to be my "confirmation" name.

Sorry that this poem is very religious, ha ha. I just felt inspired.
MoDavid Jul 8
I’ve come to think about it; at times it may seem blatant—
why it’s a fact, but indeed we were all children once...
Children: then the innocent; but with time flew the pleasant
gems of the past. I could no longer recall when ‘twas.

Yet somehow the distinction presents itself quite clearly.
All are born without prejudices; they grow to learn
them their own. If anything, sentiments are born merely
from those around us, ‘til one day they can’t be unearned.

Thus I say, when men are born they are without character:
a racist man is not born but is made; likewise, a gentleman
is forged from the furnaces of virtue and integrity. Might there
be some way we can just try—to be children again?

We were all children once… it seems we forget this;
whence comes our innocence, is but a bygone fantasy.
Written 07/07/2020
Marion Jul 7
andrew.
i fall to my knees at his feet with a heavy breath.
i almost feel unworthy.
this person, this man-
he's perfection in flesh and blood.
i feel blessed.
this angel, a saint with flaws, perfect flaws.
i nearly worship him.
godlike, i search his face for signs of light, anything celestial or close to it.
i find them faintly, small, unnoticeable to anyone who's wronged him.
he is perfect, and somehow, he is mine.
Thanakarshnni Jun 15
She neither got white love,
nor got black hate;
there, she decided to be pure
in those few eyes
in which she looked pure
and got all the white love from!

-Thanakarshnni
Purity
Sanjana Jun 13
Hold my hand, I'll walk you through the rainbow.
Up and above the blue the sky.
We'll ride on shooting stars, in circles around the moon.
Eat cotton candy made with the yummiest of the clouds.
We'll dance all night, jump along Venus, Jupiter and Pluto.
Sing along playing the strings of the sun rays.
I'll put you to sleep at the end of the rainbow.
And take you back home with the morning rain drops.
A date nobody would want to refuse.
Charlotte T Jul 28
She pressed her palms together
and prayed to be desired with purity,
free from lust and deceit.
“What waits for me behind the horizon line?”
Oh, Ophelia,
sweet cherub
face, bathed
in moonlight,
doe eyes filled
                with woe:

You are a figure
of my affliction,
falling softly at
midnight, a
delicate dis-
position, fragile
                as soft snow,

a garden you
invite me to,
opulent trees of
treason, you
are the siren’s
call at dusk,
pulling me away
from the

                garden
                of
                eden.
-Goat Apr 27
I look for what the others can't see:
Purity of heart, innocent as can be
For only with those who are yet to be tainted
You will find love that can't be feinted
What's the point in looking for who is hot, when you'll just end up hating their gut
Dr zik Apr 21
Lines on palms
to show the direction
Van to give the ride
to unknown passenger
Life a road towards You

Eyes to see the path: undiscussed
Ears to listen words unsaid
Nose to smell flowers untouched
Life a road towards You

Feelings to show purity
Sense to chain the feet
Wish to talk to own You
Life a road towards You

Vision to have your company
Heart to have You
Hands to solute You
Life a road towards You
Dr Zik's Poetry
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