"infirmity" poems
Fabricated.
Fictitious.
A fake floating feeling
Falls short
Of my fleeting fantasy.
This insidious infirmity
Isn't what I intended.
I've been inflicted
With internal indisposition.
In need of an ideal identity.
Who am I without
This ****** to make me whole?
How do I heave my heart
Away from this hole?
Have you seen how hard this is?
But it's been short of a year,
Of believing I can simply be.
And before I break
Bleed me of my bane.
And for me, bear no malice.
Tightly take me
Away from my terible tempest.
Time tells me it's time to stop.
Too long I've tortured my tenemet.
Tame the tantrum tearing through me.
Sober seems strong,
But it's systematic survival.
Stopping the surrender
To something stimulating.
Learning to stand sedated.
No I'm no longer numb.
No longer neglecting my need
For new novcane.
Knowing I'll never need
This vaccine again.
You are all my ambition.
Dispelling my ailments
And afflictions.
I am hard to adore, I know.
You are my new addiction.
You have me dreaming,
Praying we are real.
Made me feel.
Don't decieve my brittle belief.
Keep me, don't leave.
I'm not the kind to fly.
For you i'd try to dive.
Unafraid I might die.
I don't hide from the night.
This is what I've been trying to find.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
I love my country: India , but
I hate many of its rulers, as
they speak for the poor and
act for tycoons bellicose, and-
Diversity sighs in armed Unity;
The selfish corrupted in unity
March ahead on graves crafty.
I love my country: India , but
August fifteenth : with freedom,
opened all devilish forces
out of Hell to fell all virtues.
Grim faced Buddha smiles
Like a nuclear Phantom ,his
tears drip on tomb of Peace.
No white dove sits on dome
It bleeds in the lap of Buddha.
If birth is the cause of gloom.
who stops one from bloom?
Dearth of berth clamour for
Death of birth at the womb.
I love my country: India , but
Souls are free on lovely Earth
Lay bodies strain to survive.
A nominal word equanimity
Gushes in landslide infirmity.
Service becomes self –service,
In black ink sleeps Socialism.
Fear Neurosis like King Kamsa
Keeps Liberty behind the bars.
Healthy, wealthy Bharat Matha
Groans in labour room for Santi.
Note: 1). August fifteenth= 15 August 1947 when India became free from Briton. 2).Buddha=Gutham Buddha(Prince Sidhardha) who established Buddhism.3).Kamsa= The mythological character , uncle of Lord Krishna who chained even his sister Devaki out of the fear psychosis. 4),Bharat Matha= Indians consider Bharat/India as their Mother(Matha)-so it is Mother land not Fatherland for them .Santi/Shanti=a Sanskrit word used in Vedas and Upanishads of India which means Peace or Islam.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
Let the bird of loudest lay
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing
Save the eagle, feather’d king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak’st
With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:—
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none;
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
‘Twixt the turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix’ sight;
Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appall’d,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was call’d.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either neither;
Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, ‘How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.’
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS
Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix’ nest;
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:
’Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
7.1k
Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me the bitterness
and from sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world may know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time's olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening's
twilight find me gentle still.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
When the wordly things get all the glory
You tend to live a life that's unholy.
Facing the life's painful reality.
Fight againt wicked principalities
Losing your sense of morality.
As you are procrastinating about Learning your biblical A...B...C's
You are counting up your salary
When you should be counting all of God's promises like 1...2...3..
Thats when it begins to Spread like an deadly ****** transmitted Disease
First its sniffle and a sneeze
Next is a cough and a wheeze
Then you'll Barely be able to breathe
Knocking you to your knees
Begging God, "Please Heal Me"
Praying desperately For His Mercy
Then the STD forcefully will begin to tightly squeeze.
Till it becomes an Infection that attacks your every function flowing like a virus.
This sickness removes the color from life and leave you like eyes with damaged to the nerves, pupil and Iris.
This happens when you Subtract Christ from your life like a math equation involving minus.
Being sticken with this ailment will deprives us, If we dont let Christ take the wheel to Drive and guide us.
This Infirmity is very cancerous
It will impact your 6 senses Just like the Symbol for The Eye Of Horous.
Because we are individuals who are like sponges, filled with holes, absorbant and yet very porous.
Beneath the fleshly being lies a spirit
Crying out for help can you hear it?
This deficiency will leave you Shivering from the Chill of it's swift wind's cold breeze
The very thought of this illness makes the soul freeze
Once it realizes it has a contracted a Spiritually Transmitted Disease.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
Wearied of sinning, wearied of repentance,
Wearied of self, I turn, my God, to Thee;
To Thee, my Judge, on Whose all-righteous sentence
Hangs mine eternity:
I turn to Thee, I plead Thyself with Thee,--
Be pitiful to me.
Wearied I loathe myself, I loathe my sinning,
My stains, my festering sores, my misery:
Thou the Beginning, Thou ere my beginning
Didst see and didst foresee
Me miserable, me sinful, ruined me,--
I plead Thyself with Thee.
I plead Thyself with Thee Who art my Maker,
Regard Thy handiwork that cries to Thee;
I plead Thyself with Thee Who wast partaker
Of mine infirmity,
Love made Thee what Thou art, the love of me,--
I plead Thyself with Thee.
3.5k
What I said you can't define
A chill that runs down my spine
It lingers down my veins
Am I here? Am I sane?
You look at me like I'm crazy
You haven't said a word and just maybe
You want to leave
and let me be
I cannot move
I'm in the state of infirmity.
They call me ecstatic
In fact I am enigmatic.
I did it again and realized I am alive.
You cannot bare to see me here
In this insane trance I fear.
Just set me free
Into the rain, from all the pain
Down the drain, through the hole
I see no light, everything white.
I might be dead?
No more me sick in the head.
Life has become lucid,
but did you see what you did?
The power you had to make me mad?
Will you hark back to my old talk?
Or will you walk,
Away from me?
Leave me here
Let me be.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
We don't appreciate what we have
until we lose it
We don't see the glow on the skin
until we bruise it
We don't believe in miracles
until we need it
We don't appreciate farming
until there's famine
We don't appreciate water availability
until there's water scarcity
We don't appreciate wealth
until we see poverty
We don't appreciate good health
until we experience infirmity
We don't appreciate democracy
until we see tyranny
We don't appreciate loyalty
until we see jealousy
We don't appreciate liberty
until we see slavery!
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me the bitterness
and from sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world may know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time's olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening's
twilight find me gentle still.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
***“Who will judge, as many trudge
through mud, mucking up the rug,
a coating of clay formed by God on a particular day.
Yet talent is ingrained, whether sane or insane,
and verse is treasure or a curse, unrehearsed, dispersed for all to see,
will they applaud or disparage, this marriage of mind and rhyme,
by design aligned, a sign of the times...”***
ms. patty m
~~~
once again a thunderbolt command hits between the eyes, on-right
the precise spot where the head aches with desire to fulfill the write!
but to what can I add to this encompassing question already
better answered by the questioner?
who will judge indeed!
all the time and far too often,
the flotsam rises to the surface, when better left ignored,
while the jetsam jets nowhere, buried deep though breathing yet,
on unseen sea bottom of ignorance,
luck of the draw by one who designs, who aligns,
a capricious starscape in the firmament
as well as
the infirmity & ignominy of caskets lying quiet in sea trenches
that the answer herein contained, a supposition,
a poor poets speculation, a soul’s lactation,
the very question is a cyclone bomb by competents
who are blinded+bound+blessed by
incomprehension
the only judge and jury is
your forefingers tip,
if it tremble a-slight
when caressing the key called send,
your cellular fiber
has adjudged worthy,
and no dare disagree
talent and distinction
randomly and irrationally distributed,
but the courageous caress of a send key pressed,
is all that is needed
to impress the only judge and jury
that
authorized you
in advance to
love yourself insanely well enough
to write
and
to send for
a request for sentencing
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
This time last year you had dreads.
Such a labyrinth of biology tied by sweat, salt, and blood.
Laced up in a fashion of infirmity,
held together by fleeting desires.
Promises keep us floating.
Like the oxygen inlaced in driftwood.
We're densities, varying.
Fragile like a molecule, but as durable as atom.
At the mercy of magnetism.
Vibrating deep from the core.
While waiting modestly for…
nature to carry us home.
Follow the coastline.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
And He said to me: “My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.” And so, willingly shall I glory in my weaknesses, so that the virtue of Christ may live within me.
Because of this, I am pleased in my infirmity: in reproaches, in difficulties, in persecutions, in distresses, for the sake of Christ. For when I am weak, then I am powerful.
I have become foolish; you have compelled me. For I ought to have been commended by you. For I have been nothing less than those who claim to be above the measure of Apostles, even though I am nothing.
For what is there that you have had which is less than the other churches, except that I myself did not burden you? Forgive me this injury.
Behold, this is the third time I have prepared to come to you, and yet I will not be a burden to you. For I am seeking not the things that are yours, but you yourselves. And neither should the children store up for the parents, but the parents for the children.
And so, very willingly, I will spend and exhaust myself for the sake of your souls, loving you more, while being loved less.
My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
Brewing up fibs and fables to keep the peace,
a narrative soaked in sentiment but armed with deceit.
Infirmity cradles the mind and nestles in the heart,
retaliatory judgements for those who took part.
The eternal absence of a rightful apology,
will breed civil war in your land for centuries.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Ain't blemished with blood
There're queues of personas
Trying to nick every motion and shift
Every angst of the heart
Until they're hopes sink in.
On those blue and hard things
They find comfort from each infirmity
There're linings all over
Maneuvering every groove
Shaving the people out
To the finished and whitened stucco.
Gold steels are not embroidered
The hand of the room
Looks inviting
With warmth and fondness ,
Some drives in
Unlocked and melting every delusion
The sky speaks
The clouds has no mutual feelings
Acting odd and remarkable
No rainbow to be seen.
Blonde arrows
With every breath one takes
With every move one tries
Choosing to hold close the lacks
Accepting every fault
For indeed, at the latter days
The Healer Himself was the Way.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
According to the gospel
As the lord and savior traversed the holy land
Preaching the word and showing the light
Speaking with god and devil alike
Speaking love to mankind
It is said
He would find the sick
The suffering of infirmity
He would lay his hands to their skin
And heal them
He would heal them
According to the gospel
My days are long
And I have bruises that don't show on my flesh
Impracticalities that should cause mental maladies
That would help me find the self destruction I fear
And that I fear awaits me
I'm tired when I wake up
And dead through the day
But I feel alive
Every time I put my words to the page
I feel a sage
Whose wisdom is generational
I feel hope
I may be sick
Maybe
I may be a lost and tortured soul unfit to exist
In this existence
Maybe
I may feel pain
I may
And the only disease I know is the brutality of life
Maybe
Poetry heals me
It is the hands in the desert
On the ***** in the cave
It is the words as rain to feed the seed
It is the sprout of a flower
And the bloom
It is my reason
And my religion
It is my gospel
And when the angels sing
If no one else can hear but I can
I'll know of peace
In a world of disarray
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
Would you still love me:
If the sun prevents its light
And the moon its glow at night,
That all at once becomes gloomy?
Would you still love me:
If all things awry go
And nothing at all to show,
But a good token of misery?
Would you still love me:
If my arrow cannot kiss
Thy waiting bow's release,
To have a bout of ecstasy?
Would you still love me:
If medical reports say "cancer "
That has no surgical answer,
Or another form of infirmity?
Or would you only love me:
If my life wields a touch of Midas
With the revelry of Las Vegas--
All sublime, all sweet, all rosy?
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Have prayed and praised and fasted,
And have done all what one knew to do.
Still sick, jobless, barren or indebted,
One would be wondering what anew
Is to be done more, for a miracle
To happen and dislodge one's obstacle.
Are God's ears deaf, one may think,
Reasoning if his eyes are not blind?
For how could he allow one to sink
In the sea of sorrow, if he is kind
Indeed to every member of his creatures
On earth, whom he daily nurtures?
Yet, the Lord is faithful forever
Despite the many spites of one's life.
Though one may not now be as that feller
Rich, hale and hearty, or like that nymph
Heavy; yet God shall the situation turn
Around. To every even, there must be a morn.
He that for compassion wholly a widow's
Mount of debts leveled and gave progeny
To Sarah and Anna, who alone windows
In heavens made and healed grave infirmity.
Christ can this dead raise and cause that dry
Bone to live again; no pain escapes his eye.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
Subtly, so subtly, the workings of Time
Must alter the shape of the outer shell
Of a body once vibrant and molded so well!
Slowly, but surely, like a wood-boring worm,
Out of the gloom of a perilous clime,
Firm in the grasp of a seasonable term,
Comes the chill-laden wintry spell
Of sad infirmity in a dismal sphere;
Lost in the woods of a cherished dream,
In the thickening fog of Nature's scheme,
Midst muffled sounds of distant strains
Are earlier years that knew no fear
Of time and age, what now remains
Eternity must rightly redeem.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
Forsaken by friends and family:
Abandoned in his wretched infirmity
To be pining away for sheer eight
And thirty weary years straight,
Was that bloke by the cool pool
Of Bethesda left. Yet like a mule
Did he stick to his lone faith,
That no matter how long he'd wait
For his miracle--he would nonethe-
Less in his belief in God ever tarry.
And so it was one dandy day,
That Jesus, on a short stay
In Jerusalem, for for him to honour
A feast there, did spot with candour
Clear, that impotent cove long forgotten
There, who was by sickness smitten.
Though a mother her child may neglect,
And his son a father may also reject;
Yet not God. Not the good and loving
Lord, even in spite of man's many a sin.
Heaven does never forget at all humanity,
'Cause the earth is watched by the Trinity
All the time without ceasing. For good,
Nay for evil; giving us breath and food
And everything that our souls so desire,
According to the will of Heavenshire.
The fulfilment of our life's dream may,
Like smoke in the air, linger. Some day,
Though, in God's how and time, shall it yet
To reality come, if in focus we do not fret.
For the compassion that filled his heart
With the kindness that could never depart
From him, Christ went over that infirm
Fella, that his healing he may affirm.
By Jesus was he thus made at once whole:
Touching not only his body but also his soul.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 4:25 PM UTC
Away amongst the dappled sky
You see me racing swiftly by
And harken to my engines cry
The heavens ever speeding nigh
For ****** will push me swiftly high
Tis skyward that I fly!
The jet stream takes me rapidly
The form aerodynamically
To the place I mean to be
A bullet shot from barrel, me!
So fast a blur is all you see…
To lofty places I ascend
The constellations to befriend
And through the space which has no end
I strike the fabric, make it bend
Before spacetime itself I rend…
I land in distant years behind
My eldest kin I hope to find
For in their strength they’ve become blind
A warning have I in my mind
“Beware, the future is not kind…”
And when my purpose here is done
They hear my mighty engines run
I launch once more toward the sun
My sonic blast, all hearing, stun
Like bullet shot from smoking gun!
Then back through rift I must return
Slowing by my retro burn
But soon a dreadful thing I learn
A comet speeding struck my stern
Stranded now, defeat I spurn!
For though my state is more then grave
Tis home my soul dose wholly crave
And so a plan I start to pave
A burnished sail my life will save
For I can ride a solar wave.
Now close to earth I soon will be
Approaching far too rapidly
For burning is my craft, yes she
The one who swiftly carried me
Crash! I plunge into the sea.
My ship is recked but I survive
Drifting eastward half alive
When to an island I arrive
And on said place, for life I strive.
Then after months of living there
Illness I take through lack of care
But then a ship, tall sailed and fair
Picks me up, off island bare
And gives me drought of spirit ere
Death claim me or age **** my hair.
And when I am safe home at last
Infirmity from me I cast
Recalling engines mighty blast
My journey to the distant past
And galaxies rushing toward me fast!
I write it down, just how you read
And tell it true to all who heed
And now conclude, for I am freed
With brand new rocket, lightning speed
What a wondrous life I lead…
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:45 PM UTC
HYPOCHONDRIA
The feeling so real
So disconnecting:
the mind and body surreal
So encapsulating:
the connection of fear to the assumed infirmity
So enchanting:
The assuring gestures of certain saneness
"I'm ok. Its ok."
James GIBEK Jude.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
eye saw an overweight mother walking down one of our avenues. Beside her, a daughter of perhaps eight or nine years of age. The mother was heavy though once in possession of attractive. Plump everywhere, thought kindly, was the daughter. Past obese, on her way to fat. While at that age you can easily be transformed by a lucky blossom, a passion for sports, both the mother and daughter were holding hands, smiling and happy together, as is...as they were, where they were...
in a big city and universe where skinny is the currency of happiness, I grew agitated, internally. The mother had to have been injured by the most awful slings and arrows of the world's impartial, unforgiving dislike for all things that were not pitch perfect. Agonies that children are often the object of the subject of verbal water boarding by bad gene bullies were surely yet to come! Why did she not as a mother, protect her daughter's future and have her avoid the pressure of a world that pretends to celebrate diversity, but truly loves only the infirmity of acceptable uniformity? Diet, execise, caring, mothering, something!
why did she allow, permit, nay perhaps, encourage this child to mimic her thus? Was it a caustic indifference, a simple misery needs company?
of course, it could have been genetic and I'm just another overwhelming overweight ******* too.
But twenty fours later, I saw them in my mind's eye clearly - holding hands and happy together, and I forgave them my conditioned trespasses, but remained worried about the many nights of tears that no prophet was required to predict.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC
The Panther scales above the infirmity of the jungle
like a reverent vicar, in her mouth
she clutches an infant. To some this is
the most intoxicating world—so long as you don’t mind
a little ruse, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn’t consist of a flurry of happiness?
Below, game lopes abundantly as the ocean tributaries,
each frolicking along a distinctive course, not that
she ever really ruminates over them, or anything else.
The panther has never had to digest a fable,
though her existence propagates an analogous terror.
When predators raid her hearth, they remain
ephemeral, irrelevant – her insatiable hunger the only story
she has ever managed to revisit.
Your skin will never feel her eyes. I cannot say
she is wrong. Piously she prepares her supper,
with its meager, undeveloped vigor, erupting
a contented roar in the conversion of its properties.
She exists the product of her kind, the natural order her excuse
as she scales back above the inconsequence of the jungle
again, to do the same thing
(as I’d longed to do something, anything) perfectly.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
Departed..
From this place.
Elevation.
The feeling of transformation.
Highly apace.
Culminating into eternity.
No pain.
No infirmity..
A sound soul.
Wending..
To meet its goal.
Finally...
Ascending.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
Thou art my wife,my mother,my babe.
Thou art the mad mosaic of my cradle song.
Thou art my soul's familiar friend.
None deserves to be my destination
Except thee.
Thou art Being and Non-Being of the self of mine
Which is thine
Seated inside thine heart.
I am thy slave,o thou,
Myself who art entirely.
Thine is the kingdom of my thoughts.
Thou hast made me everlasting,
Altering and transforming,
Like thee,never constant.
For thee i have kept the Water of Life.
Thou who hast gone after the I Ching
Like a Chinese fascination of beauty and wisdom.
Verily,thou along with me,
Hast gone after the form.
O Loved One,
Thou hast embraced the reality
That thou canst find in mere assertion.
My love is my life
That i have sought for years.
Although in essence it is nothingness
As the Taoist vessel,
As the quintessence of the utmost Way_
Vast and vague,without shape.
Regard me not from my infirmity.
O' why dost thou make my thoughts frail
Beneath which are six rivers
Of Love and Faith,
Mystery and Secret,Yin and Yang.
Thou art my babe inside my womb
Who hast hundreds and thousands of names
In this far stretching expanse
Of non-existence and nothingness.
Thou art my embryo,
Bowed in worship inside my womb.
I often feel within me
Mine divine bowing performance.
Verily,thou art near me.
Verily,thou art within me.
Verily,thine is
The realm of my existence.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC