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It is true, its walls are heftier than I feel.
Its map appears when good self disappears
Away from the cosmos,
Than Einstein’s formula could reach.
Lighted up by Him who made it so.

Its track thereof, on the path of good deeds.
Gold slabbed roads starring the carpeted ground
And crystal streams snaking by healing trees.
The one who had gone before
was nailed before He could speak.

Lover of strange books,
Spoke thus in nasal flow:
'Tell me you babbler boy
Where does this lie lie,
Its geography and its scape?'

And the wise sayer spoke thus:
'Every night the eye’s shuttles are drawn short
For the mind to practice its end.
Then, distance between seconds,
He works in York and parades in Paris.

When the nights are dark and thick,
He knocks the memory still.
By moving through black holes
To unminuted meetings,
Returning in the mornings
To sit by sanctuary’s hope'.

That “you” in you knows his path
And by riddles describe his home.
When he is finally free,
He shall tell you where it be.
But this earthy ear may not be
To hear it in this realm.
He is neither hue nor leucoplain.
No, not mean, just humane.
Hatch to good codes
And harsh to misconducts.
A delight to the grey; a connecting figure.

One of a kind, non-gossiper,
Door keeper to secrets kept.
Not proud of pride.
Cardiac chamber…mon ami:
succour for the low.

His every step is marked on slates
whispered around in shadowy sheds
The grandson of a devout
Who stood his ground
against the horseman and his sword.

Reviled by the sharers of same chalice.
His good, their acrimony;
His smile, their scowl.
“Why spread his hand thus?
We too are Abrahams”.

He feared not for his blood
‘cause the Lamb is on His post.
A slap to Prophet False
who creeps into innocent homes
And peeps through frail shrouds.

Dark apprentice PF called “daddy”
Drunk in mystical drinks: green-eyed monster
Whose sneeze had been snuffed
By his knees that humble not.
Chained, yet darts at the dear.

But the lonely believer staggers on
Eyes gazed on the path.
His conscience, a witness.
A clean heart he offers
To whom his spirit answers.
You say we're friends, with benefits on the side,
Yet seems we get together, then continue to hide...
You hide from my friendship until you feel like being found.
And I'm sure a fool for remaining around.

But I can't get away; I can't seem to move on,
Dreams of you cross my mind into early dawn.
We haven't spoken since that night my innocence was lost,
But then you turned your shoulder, which hit with an icy frost.

There is always a lesson to learn from the pain,
But it appears I still like you...I know it's insane.
I long for you to call me, yet you never do,
I'd be satisfied with a real conversation from you...
The ways of life are numerous
Each way displays its own districts and streets
Some bear “…the junction of slothity and poverty”
Others carry attractive posts, the likes for gullible minds
“…wine and dine with the best of time wasters”

One way screams with speakers at pride’s plane
Above terrestrial comprehension
“…junction for all smokers”
It adds “…all those are welcome
who silt to their fill and pipe like chimney”

Observe enough and see folks encroached
Battered and weathered by wrong decisions
Having gory tales to tell.
Why are you blaming them?
It was not their fault, everyman had a plan.
God, they loved for leverage and so had no plans for Him.
In turn, He made plans without them.

It is dusk so soon, but the pleasure they sought
Have tarnished into sorrow
Now they have gathered from their destruct
Reared by those who were yet to begin
“What is the way forward?”
A question not too late but waned.

The sage bent by age, suffocated by their sulphur
Forerunner of their presence
Mixed with perfumed breath of the ‘holics
Smiling though, on the surging crowd
His lips made twitches….then failed.
His hands took over….but frailed.
Then pointed his digits
Fingers that have served all prodigals

That way that looks rugged at the entrance
With no welcome sign
So narrow that your slings must be parted
That is the way, the way of the Blood and the Cross.
Solomon…, Solomon…, kingly grace
Imperfectly coordinated with she-mind twisters.
Wild chelation:
Some cofactors, some inhibitors.
One lesson too many.
It comes in vertical embrace,
Upward journey into the wee of night.
London bells, like I have heard.
Sweet sleep perturbed by zazzy waves
And tick-tock race, chasing my dreams.

It comes so soon as it fades so fast,
Racing tracks to no end.
Talk yester-in, then the reach.
Splattered sweated ink on whitened blank
With plans to feed to it.

Plan for it, work by it and rest in it.
Think headwise and not waistwise.
Head seed first, ends in fame.
Waistful thought, ends in pain.
Aborted tomorrow is fathered by ignorance.

Those that fore-look, rejoice in it.
Those that wish-watch, regret in it.
Today’s seed is its tree.
Take the pill for its pain
And tomorrow is all gain.
Was it not for joy they praised your ‘fairest’ birth
And plaited hair unend, your weavy piggy tail
Like lily grown… on alluvial plain?

Was it not a hallo placed on your rosy head
As mother pulled on end and you leapt on holy ground
Like Papal’s pet… and sanctuary blessed?

Was it not all “yea” they nodded to agree,
That a future bright and temple well garnished
Will break the curses…earned in decades past?

How the heart of stone did oust the flesh of good
Prided deluded beauty, hewed for filthy dogs.
Saying with all zest…“it’s now my life”

Is it not a shame that every Jack has seen,
Foiled and ployed with fille, so tender and so dear
Like roses red… plucked at ease and will?

Is it not a shame that every Jack has caused
Unwholesome dent on flossy smoothy silk,
Unspeakable merch…deeds of rusty spite?

Is it not a shame that every Jack has felt
Fair Angelina faded from filthy crusty perks,
Angelic at birth… but fallen down to grass?  

Is it not a shame that every Jack has seen
Pure flow of red and sealed treasure robbed,
Divinely bloomed… for the worthy “he”?
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