"recounts" poems
Today tastes like
Satisfied saturday lie ins
and accompanied sleepy yawns
Tea in bed
toast crumbs
Today tastes like
Washing pegs I hold in my mouth
while ******* things
out on the line
Today tastes like
Saturday sweetie day
peanut m n m's
and other sugary
treats hooray!
Today tastes like a trip to the zoo
animal antics
fruit bats
meerkats
and tamarin tantrics
Today tastes like
My son's hearty hugs
he's been away all week
with the scouts
a hearty dinner
whilst he recounts
his trip's losers and winners
Today tastes like
brightly coloured family
television shows
of sofa time and
cheesey toes
(before i put the boys
in the bath)
Today tastes like
relaxation
tea and more tea
Maybe I'll allow
myself a
cheeky glass of wine
to further relax
and unwind!
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
He looks at her lying there sleeping with a smile on his face
He shuts his eyes
Opens them and sees her beckoning to him
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms and murmurs sweet nothings till she is asleep again
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again and he's still standing there watching her sleep
He watches her as she speaks so animatedly
The light from the harsh fluorescent bulb hardly diminishes the angles, the planes, the beauty of her face
He watched the pleasure in her face turns to sorrow as she recounts her troubles
And as he wished with all his might that he could take her in his arms to comfort her
He shuts his eyes
And opens them
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms
Comforts her as she cries out her anguish
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again
And he's still sitting in his seat
Watching her pour her soul out
He's standing by the door
As she bids him goodbye
She saunters over to him
Hugs him goodbye
As she walked away
He shuts his eyes
Opens them
And hurries over to her
With a whisper as soft as butterfly wings
He says "I'm in love with you"
He shuts his eyes
And opens them again
He's still standing by the door
As she hurried away to her ride
With the words still unspoken
He lay down in his bed
Thinking about the day
As he closes his eyes
He goes back to dreaming about her
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
the couches' cushions caving in.
The weight of passing hours
and minuettes alleviating thinking
in a miscellaneous metronome
ticking to bring time to a heaving chest.
Stay calm,
the pain of realignment will pass.
Burdensome they may be,
burgeoning wings will free you of...
Pressure collapsing this cage,
walls torn from studs,
leaving only this skeleton
surrounding us as we find delirium
the backbone of convulsing lungs watched,
earthquake mute laughter marring the faces
with jagged faults.
The cost of cracking,
we must accept the scarring permanent.
Breaks unplanned infirmities,
alone, our time line disrupted itself
and the heavens came,
tumbling down.
In silence,
we lay, arms barring
our escaping words.
Eyes overstep boundaries,
slipping through the gaps,
a second moment of
clarification fractures restraints
whilst beguiling brainstorms
sparked our interest.
Our tongues meet,
shyly.
rubies placed upon your breath
slipping against molded clay.
In sapphires
you and I hold nighttime
reflections of passion
contained in coal, waiting.
Ivory runs my length,
bending to ecstasy, breathing
shallow, asynchronous, failing
to find it's end in persistence.
In night
the danger dropped us, longing
that dusty light beaming down on
the show, Act 2 is
the comedy. Off.
Parallel parabola line diamond reflections,
allow for recall with brushed fingertips,
horse hair undertones realigning smiles,
abstract the paintings of today,
of yesterday, stealing away tomorrow
in a previous reiteration of our variant
indifference.
The wings of the demon opened
in symbolic solace, fell far
across this burning emotional
harbor, aflame
in angels' suicides.
We've fallen, taken knees to grace,
whispering eulogies the waves applaud.
Sands wash away to cupped stone
palms, caressing the troubled banks lost
in time. The blood washes away,
momentary marks, brown,
stained, it passes.
Demons foreshadow.
In their shade we are seen
falling into broken arms, sinew
stitched through hearts, still healing
strength gives way.
Our tongues meet
shyly,
this reunion a mistake,
now locked, staying stilled while
attempting apologetic phrasing.
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
blank walls and barren recounts
crashing in.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
Ancient Athens
demonstrated a demise of democracy into despair and squalor
at the hands of the voters.
Ancient Rome
recounts a reduction of a Republic into nationalist rancor
at the hands of the state.
The United States of America
is a sort-of culmination of both;
of how a Democratic Republic may fail,
impoverishing and subjugating it's own
as well as it's proximity,
reducing itself and any it can drag with it
from a respectful idealization of Human Experience
to a bloodthirsty, greedy, vapid shell
of Fascisms past.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
My father,
Who never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot,
Recounts fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(He's very sure he won).
My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Diesel International tractor cylinders
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps and sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.
Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of robins and meadowlarks.
Fifty years later,
Dad laughs in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Starting up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out earliest?'"
Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I haven't heard.
They even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore.
As early became earlier
In the little farmers' war.
One day in town,
Entirely by happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But the neighbor shook his head,
Grabbed his hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness.
I don't know about you,
But I need my sleep."
The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a while,
As "The Early, Earlier War."
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
Just when you think
the road leads to nowhere
crops up the moss veiled house
its crumbling bricks make greyer
the sky with the hush of twilight
and you rue with melancholy
the night under its roof assigned for you
but the old man like a seasoned spider
lets you forget you're trapped for the night
to his web spun from timeworn earth
as you stare engrossed upon his face
outlined by glowworm sparks
he recounts it was all marshland
he grew into bowl of harvest
and how he was blessed with
the most beautiful woman on earth
then reaching the crescendo
his words thin into whispers
when he tells you his two poor eyes
were not enough to hold her beauty
so she putting a stone on her heart
spread wings on a night like this
the cornfield wilted
he wizened into an endless wait
with gracious death saving his bones
to lighten his heart to a stranger
who comes alone.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne’er was meant for other ears;
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
And dig the source of future tears?
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh,
If thou believ’st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler’s prey.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.
While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tell’st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil?
These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze:
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb’s praise?
Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceit—
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit?
For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing.
Cease, if you prize your Beauty’s reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove:
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.
1.9k
A family man, running spandexed and puffing
reaches into the stroller at the crest of the hill
as the day sighs away the last of its dusk
hands a three year old a flashlight
and makes her a secret-wink promise.
*You'll move so quickly on your path,
it's your duty to carry a light with you
to keep you and others safe.*
A stern man and a hot scratchy washcloth
removing a Spice Girls bubblegum tattoo from
the nose of a seven year old, molecule by molecule.
*As soon as you get caught up in superficiality,
that's when you'll make mistakes. Don't make
mistakes that will last.*
A medic man returns from a surgery
from a rural village with more kindness than money.
Lays a basket of apples and a banana loaf on the table
in lieu of a cheque and says:
*There will be opportunities in your life for
your actions to define the kind of person you are-
always take them-
and never forget your common humanity.*
An animal man bursts into the room
with a puppy as new as a sparrow
gamboling, loving, seeking faces and laps.
*When choosing your first dog, look for
one that has more loyalty than shrewdness.
Choose your friends that way, too.*
A tired man breathes deeply instead of shouting
at the quivering teen and the confession of the bumper
and the scratch that shouldn't have happened.
Hurt softly with the truth.... but never with lies.
A romantic man recounts his history
raising his eyebrows at the score of his frolics
and makes me swear to fall madly in like
with every soul who my heart should kiss-
*but Love, reserve Love as the most sacred
of words, deeds, beings. When you Love,
you and he shall become one another,
and be one life.*
A sentimental man wears a silver crown
at the head of his dinner table meditating in
silence after the laughs and mayhem of his
family clan have subsided to the fireplace.
He looks at his daughter.
She looks at her father.
The fullness of her adult face
and Polish eyes reflect in his irises
blue inside blue inside blue inside blue-
making any separation between them
redundant, intangible, like-
mirrors facing mirrors-
as the roots of the
Tree run as deep as soul itself
and he murmurs:
*The day you hear the cry of your firstborn child
is the day you discover the meaning of your life-
and nothing will ever, ever be the same.*
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
Tired on the train
I listen
A young mother on her mobile
solemn faced but beautiful eyed
angrily confronts
her daughters father
with a maternal mantra
*How do I tell her
When I have all her tears and questions?*
I guess he keeps hanging-up
or the signal is lost
The words repeat
almost verbatim
and repeat
and repeat
No-one looks
everyone listens
And then in the vestibule
a smiling South African
recounts with passion
about the Jacaranda
turning Cape Town purple
around this time of year
...he missed his stop
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
I see you in the sky ,
Far, afar off.
I watch you from the earth,
Far, afar off.
Brightness enlightens the
vicinity from the grip of
elemental forces,
Enveloping the entire arena and
beyond like the mother hen
brooding her children out
of the reach of seducing eyes
of a roaming hawks in the
sky.
Your dome-shaped entity
distinctively standing aloof
like a magnificent rotunda
palatial in the Arabian oasis.
Thirty nights of illumination,
When we spreads our mats
to narrate tale under your
watchful eyes.
When elders recounts narrative
and ancient panorama of
yesteryears.
When we clap,
When we sing,
When we dance
In the womb of your greatness.
Thirty nights of total darkness,
When lanterns endlessly
searches for light to
extinguish darkness,
When the night-callers
terrorizes our quietness,
When the guardsmen work
like wild wolves to fish
out the sons of Belial,
When the night impels babies
to retire to their cradles,
When the wiles of darkness
inculcate an aura of fear into
our minds.
Prolong your circles and
brighten our hope.
You produces light,
You illuminates season.
Your neighbor reigns over
days,
While you control the affairs
of darkness.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 11:26 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Call me a chump
But I’m with Trump
When it comes to Carson
He can’t be accused of parsing
When he says pathological
He’s being pedagogical
Using the man’s own words
Which completely under girds
What the man said
About the thoughts in his head
And it’s no more than logical
He said he’s pathological
We must wonder hard
If he’d still go that extra yard
To practice his absurdity
I know the thought’s occurred to me
Cuz if you take a look
Inside his true confession book
You’re gonna be amazed
As he recounts the different ways
He showed off his temper
With his mother front and center
Then a friend or relative
Who he tried his best to shive
It may sound like a joke
But thank God the blade broke
Then there’s the guy that he rocked
With a solid steel padlock
But no one can recall
Because the tales he tells are tall
Though he insists they’re true
But those who know him asked, "Who knew?"
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
The poets all lied.
Eyes are not the window to the soul.
If that were the case,
All humans would be empaths,
And we'd be free from plague and war.
After all,
It's easy to gaze through the glass.
Eyes,
Are the manuscripts of survival,
And it takes a trained researcher
To decipher the ramblings
And recounts of a life lived in full.
Every glance.
Every dart.
Every blink.
Every tear.
Every eye writes words of trauma,
And histories of realities,
Which one cannot understand
As simply,
As one can stare through the pane.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 12:28 AM UTC
The first attempt ended in nothingness. Ribbons flowed from the belly of mother hollow, and though they grasped at their own absence, their fingers broke like brittle leaves, returning to the mother’s flesh.
This was the birth of change.
The second attempt ended in madness. Shadows rose out of the nothingness in waves and cascaded into pools of being, but when being opened its eyes and saw its image, it let out a threshing scream.
This was the birth of separation.
The third attempt ended in lack. Fire poured from the cosmic maw and baked earth to blood; flesh gorged on itself, and pale figures gripped the edges of rivers, gaping at one another, unable to speak.
This was the birth of despair.
The last attempt ended in man; and nothing birthed after it.
Appended File
Source states the archaeologist was investigating the Mariana Trench. Strangely, he began displaying symptoms of decompression sickness on the descent. His state worsened, but, due to his insistence, the pilot continued the mission. The archaeologist began recounting, in “muddled and broken speech”, accounts of his wife and children. In interviews conducted after the incident, colleagues claim to have never met any persons matching such descriptions. Soon after, the archaeologist collapsed. The pilot recounts, in a shaken tone, “By all means he was out. Like—I called to him, you know.” When asked why he did not administer first aid, the pilot replied “I couldn’t st—he was out cold, I ******* swear. I didn’t notice it at first, moving my hand over his face, you know—staring into space. I grabbed the kit, turned back, and that’s when it hit me. His eyes weren’t glazed, they were fixed on me. Tracking me. Like—those weren’t his eyes, anymore.” When asked to expand on this, the pilot broke down and had to be escorted from the room. The archaeologist has yet to awaken from his coma. It should be noted his eyes are closed.
— 37, Male. Cairo, Egypt.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
I saw my first lesbians when I was 6.
She was short with spiky hair,
She was tall with curly hair.
They held each other tenderly,
Floating blissfully in the swimming pool,
Absorbed in each other and unaware of
The shaking head of my father
And his outstretched arm
As he shielded his children from the happy couple.
When I was little, I held weddings for my Barbie dolls
And I couldn’t understand why my parents made me stop.
It wasn’t until they bought me a shiny new Ken doll
That the weddings could start again.
A few months ago
Mum discovered her friends were lesbians
And I beheld in her eyes the mixture of wonder and disgust.
Wild-eyed recounts of intrusions on quiet embraces
And the fear of the unknown heavy in every word.
How disappointed they would be now!
To know that I dream of my head between a woman’s thighs.
That I remember with fondness
The feminine lips that have pressed against mine.
I am what you fear.
The hell-bound filthy sinner
Bent on destruction and lust.
Sneaking into your society, poisoning your children.
I am the monster you hate, the wretch you pity.
But maybe you would understand
If you saw how sweet this ********** is.
If you knew how it feels
To see sweet contentment and bliss
In the arms of a woman.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
I miss our first days sometimes
and like to reminisce at night
There are times when I'm lucky and
I can convince him to retell our stories to me
after we turn out the lights.
It always helps me to fall asleep;
When he recounts our memories.
I would love to lay together and hear him describe things to me
but he doesn't like to lately
Oct 11, 2023
Oct 11, 2023 at 9:03 PM UTC
Raisins and pebbles jingle
in your frayed pocket
what else have you lost?
whilst repentance is at your leisure,
the end is nye
remember the rain recounts tears
and wagon wheels ghosts memories
stand tall if you can
albeit at your own acquiescence.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Dinners under the chandelier
Meaningless chatter and happy laughter
The delicious smell of quesadilla
Drifting through the air from the counter
Grandma rocking in a corner
Little ones sparked before her
Marveling at her skill with the needle
Entranced by the music from Grandpa's fiddle
Stories by the moonlight
Folktales by the fireplace
Connecting dots with the starlight
Losing track of time in space
She never knew the word 'pain'
Then she felt the pain of death
Till the betrayal of Cain
Till she craved the high of ****
Now pain is all she knows
Pain in all forms and doses
Be it through bullets and blows
Or even the thorns of roses
She's grown so used to it
It's started to feel normal
She's grown so accustomed
Without it she's incomplete
As she sits near the cliff's edge
She dares to think of happier times
As she uses her foot as a wedge
She remembers the oven clock's chimes
She remembers mama's cookies
Her favourite was chocolate
She remembers papa's banters
And Nana's beliefs in fate
She recounts Grandpa's pipe
His delicious mixed smells of tobacco and old person
That must be where the crave started
Her crave for the high of forgetting
As the nostalgia washes over her
She dares herself to cry
She removes her footed wedge
And begins to fly
As she flies she feels nothing
Only an empty fortress
A fortress filled with echoes
Echoes of happiness
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 8:13 AM UTC
**With two frail hands, Grandfather sits
of bygone years, he recounts the past
talking to all in monotony
stories from life as time unwinds.
The regular beat, the pendulum swings
heralding dusk, four strikes of the clock
facing the mantle, drifting in sleep
the seasons first dream... of hours turned back.**
... ... ...
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
The living legend is ****** into a rut of pining for his splendid playwright
She was his everything
A new breed of woman
No societal entourage could compare
No jovial jubilee could top her
Her humongous measure of perplexity
Her grace
Her charm
Her mystery
He now despises himself for this moment of nostalgic weeping
The mucus makes it hard for him to breathe with his deviated septum
He looks for something to alleviate his sniffling
And eviscerate all his emotional anguish
Nasal spray and bourbon
He can breathe but the alcohol only exacerbates the visceral issue
And dampens his already flaccid spirit
Clouted with the disheartening reminder that it wasn't all her fault
He fumbles with the bottle while retracing the event in his mind
"It was the golden age of bronze metals"
"She was asked to do as she was told"
"A white lie"
"A foul up"
"An accusation"
"An accessory to ******
"Madcap ad libbed alibis and recounts verbatim"
"She turned on them, they killed her"
The bourbon was gone, his nose was stuffed again
Wheezing, gagging, crying
What's the word for when a living legend wants to die?
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Thousand thunderous tones continuously smash walls,
Shouts, the constant shouts of deafening pitch shriek.
Echoing vibes loudly quiver mimicking tyke calls,
Make living conditions unbearable here so too speak.
As passing hours swoop by, vision of pale white cheek
Creates an environment within endurable in a mind,
Still even now understands not why I left you behind.
Those memories, that we are thankfully blessed with,
Too simply close your eyes lie back and fly away.
All the recounts of stories, song and a ye' old myth
Held on a tip and flung just as quick the tongues sway,
Gently fluttering the air in a kind of a childish play.
Towards my god, I humbly give thanks so I thank.
Within my heart, all memories of you I gladly drank.
Prime flowers spray their scented aroma over green,
Whilst the honeybees hoard yellow buds of ambrosia.
Encircled by sweet tender winds and sun shines sheen,
Bathing light duplicating your lips of the genus rosa,
My lovin' breast heaves fondly with warmth of Jehovah.
Fading squalls diminish dreaming emphatically of you
Opportunistically implorin' to sweep up your essence hue.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
a song of gallimaufry!
of that lively—
lonely street
a Troubadour a'play
his fingers clog at fret passé
as charming women bravely seek―――――
“Red rouge and diamond eyes of gray
this fair and mellow-mannered mare!”
his brilliant eyes went spying (and
they stole the skies of May from there!)
to spite the clement nightmare!
of that pungent—
porter street
the cleats of noble mounts
they pace the pleasance he recounts
his smile and case lay wide and chic――――
“Red felt, if you would be so kind,
solicit further coin and bill!”
his learn’ed ears went hearing (and
what ditty does remind him still?)
of the love and subtle thrill!
of that gloom ick—
ridden street
a drunk man kinks apace
an eager look be on his face
in wayward want of his mystique―――――
“Ready nigh my pick-n-anchor
pick on of mutt-n-mutineer!”
his gentle heart went jarring (as
did he of sob'ring rancor spear)
t’ward gameless
watersweet
of that lone yet-
lively
scene . . .
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Your trailing starlight woven with silver needles
Enters the mundane life of human days;
And magical tongue recounts miracles uncounted,
In magnitudes of unexpected ways.
Your vision never balks at walls or ceilings;
An artist's heart is not like other things,
The words like hope in slowly burning censors
Take to the sky, once given freedom's wings.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 4:43 PM UTC
watch'ah watch'ah want? giggles?
you got them... trans-gender males allowing
civil partnerships and all the loss of a taboo prodigy...
the other side of the spectrum you have feminism gorging
on the catwalk motto of 0... yep, with trans-gender males
getting licorice stuffed pillows you deem to call *******
funny thing... those exfoliating breathing apparatus items ****
i forgot the plural, and yes, correct, ascribing
a quality to the **** word, moor adjectives with a sunset)
pairs... now you have feminism on steroids
with girl bodies too taboo for ******
and too into-it with muscular ***** wanks
when fat was **** in painting and
breast-feeding... so one spectrum-end (dual zenith-nadir,
you choose) gets implants...
the other works out with Arnie for a flat
muscular chest that could breast-feed
a tapeworm... but hey! our politics is
a solid ace in poker... we better export this
**** to the middle east and laugh about it...
but i tell you... too prolonged the pyramids'
influence on this region,
had god interfered in the Aztec geography
we'd see no dodo right now
(inclusive of memory and memorable recounts
of the Galapagos shortcrust debriefing
in historical terminology suddenly
inspected suddenly lost
for want of cure so that history isn't
just a deja vu - hubris Gemini hatching
in a tetragrammaton)...
buggers are really keen on proving the sudden
eclipse... that's the global aspect of the plague...
everyone cared for what happened with the sudden
churn of wanting sleep...
and the greatest modern pathos? insomnia...
it's the great utopian counter -
or a lack of interpreting dreams, equating to
"life is meaningless".
lack of freud to be exact, as in:
the only hierarchy in theory is a hierarchic
stance on applicability being vogue -
everything else is hushed or broomed or ushered
into Hades so that utopia is a sinking ship
like Pompeii or Atlantis (Thomas Moore -
or should i write Thomas Morse? cradle for the
blind, a book of Braille for the sight-able
hell-bent to make bureaucracy of obstructions
in a game of noughts and crosses in the playground).
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
in the small town land marked by it's single gas station,
teens skateboard through
the Walmart 15 minutes away
smoke cigarettes
in the baseball field of their high school rival
spend Friday nights at waffle house
after football games
the hospital near Walmart
is being closed down
history replaced by
churches and banks
patriotism and school pride
is sewn into the school
t-shirts
a memorial for the boys
who drove drunk and died
it's a community
built on family values,
everyone recounts their
blessings and after years
of collective prayer
He even
bestowed upon that town
a Dollar General
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC