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neha Dec 2016
seconds, minutes, hours, days

spent hoping it was just a phase

as his parents sent him to a church where they'd say

"son, you better pray the *** away"

surely this "God" had far more important issues

than a boy in a closet with a handful of tissues

surely this "hell" was a place for far worse people

than a boy forced to confess his sins under a church steeple
Ira Aug 2018
Surprise *****, what it be,
It’s ******* me!

That guy Alucard,
From Hellsing!

I see you’re some ******* vampire,
Hoping to finally get some demonic prower!

Also you killed a lot of people,
But ****’em,
You’re ******* lust for power is very offensive to me and my singular steeple.

You’re not a vampire,
Just some **** I call “Unpeople.”

Can’t regenerate your body,
Can’t sire demon Shouty's,
Bet you can’t even out run a ******* ******* Autti.

You’re just discount me!

So say hello to a gun of mine,
It’s quite a fantasy for people who want to remove others spine!

I call it the Casull 009,
And it has a friend called the Jackal,
Using both end up in a good ol’ time!

So ******* AND DIE!!
SEE YOU IN HELL NEXT TIME!!
Ahhh... Alucard is always fun to write about. Love that crazy sociopathic *******
Jeff Stier Oct 2016
A most pious man
whose well-tempered music
brushed the cobwebs
from the throne of God

Evolution was made manifest
across deep time
these lyrical figures
achieve the same purpose
in the space between the morning star
and the dawn

A fallow field
is sewn with pearls
a moonlit beach
illuminated by shadow
every scrape of the fiddler's bow
merges mind with the present
harvests the meaning
in the moment

The composer
that good man
was
for a time
church organist at St. John's
its notable steeple leaning
all askew
as a rebuke against God
or perhaps the drunken architect

A finger of candlelight
plays across the manuscript
a fugue echoes
through the still church

And though no living person
on that still winter's night
shares the organist's solemn delight
the stirring mass of possibility
that is posterity
awaits
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.


No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.


Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Rich Hues Apr 4
To the chalk white cliffs
And the chalk white people,
The Doomsday village,
With the sandstone steeple,
The parson's wife
Scented with gin,
He prays for their souls
The lover kisses her skin,
In shadow of the yew
As the parish sips tea,
Legs around his waist
Her back against the tree.
Logan Robertson Jun 2017
Life's Predispositions


In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
red, yellow, green
and blue.
He sits in there,
a chapel for one,
in a mist
of confusion,
in a mess,
searching for answers,
as his life is waning,
escaping,
like an Autumn wind
blowing the pages of his life
... stillness,
of bookmarks,
still on page one,
he hatched, once.
All around him,
dark,
and cold,
like a winter chill,
snow banks withdrawing,
his sad existence.
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
large,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
another rainbow stretching
it's arcs for him.
He backs away.
He bemoans life,
small,
it's endowments on him.
His parent's mistake
on a dark, eerie
loveless night...
and their cutting words
"You were a mistake,"
words
that grew on him,
like barnacles
clinging to him,
eating away his buoyancy,
like a ship sinking.
In the birth of another spring,
flowers blossoms,
rivers gushing down
mountains and mountains
of pollination,
life,
he has a lone branch
waiting ... somewhere.
Such stillness.
Such stigmatization
from his parents
loveless past.
A mistake they conceded.
It had an effect on him,
darker than the blackest sheep
that he was.
What predispositions.
When the summer harvests
arrive,
fields smiling their wares,
he scowled
he scowled the corn,
subsistence,
life,
the changing seasons,
his short change
of life.
Rainbows.
Why are the birds
singing to me?
Why?
The voices
in his head
chirping,
continuing.
What message thou
bring to an orphan?
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
His eyes squint.
Dad, mom.
And whispers words
that don't need
to be said,
closure.


Logan Robertson

6/01/17
Evan Stephens Mar 13
The steeple tree is always falling
today in the wood your hand
the flower walk and the
long east of it, the last one
Trish the bar four pints
distress bit lip call
Yes, I know it's, Yes
taffy-pink sky, orange stripe
leaning up, it stutters
hers, the place is, evenfall
& the bird-perch pole
wipe the hair slowly across
bare and my skin a garment
No, it's ok, I'm ok
a tightness gathering
"heaven blotted region."
After Ashbery.
Ryan O'Leary Apr 20
Higher, I say, for the new
Notre Dame steeple, never
mind the people.

In fact, why not dismantle
the Eiffel Tower and put it
smack centre of the cathedral.

Now that would be the ultimate
******* architectural symbiosis,
one celibate bird, with two stones!
trf Jan 30
HA
it's a bone dry west
for a cool east summer
i'm steeple chasing baby
from a derby to a dungeon

orange cones on the left
bright beams on a Hummer
i'm flicking off the bird
from nevada to wyoming

get this load off my chest
it burns April like a stoner
i'm a bayou baby
from the streets of magnolia
HA, fuckit. you figure it out
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
Courage and his old friend Coward

hand in hand felt quite empowered

off they went from tower to steeple

amongst the land of broken people


they climbed amongst the highest fears

sailed the deepest darkest tears

weaved amongst the dreadest schemes

faced down nightmares, took on dreams


Coward hoped they'd do some good

in the land of flesh and blood

He didn't feel so terrified

now that Courage was by his side


they walked in wars and abject terror

hoped the world would see its error

Sometimes they got a glimpse of peace

yet many times that too would cease


Centuries passed and Courage cried

'You can't say we haven't tried!'

Then Coward's knobbly knees would settle

deep inside he'd find his mettle


In the land of broken people

beneath the towers and lofty steeple

Hope came home, it may seem absurd

holding hands with his old pal Word


Off they went to home sweet homes

Writing letters, posting poems

Off they went from tower to steeple

holding hands and healing people


Courage and his old friend Coward

hand in hand felt quite empowered

off they went from tower to steeple

with Hope and Word to heal the people
Mya Jul 2018
We're all self-destructive at heart
This practice is an art
That we've perfected
While emotions are left neglected

Come now, come now
I guess I could see how
Such a past
Would stick and last
But it's not healthy to dwell
Inside this hell
You trap yourself in


Maybe you're right but people are people
And no amount of praying under a steeple
Will save a soul
Or help wanderers know
How to thrive
Or keep tender moments alive
We'll destroy what we can't control
Just to fill a hole
And I'm afraid I'm joining the herd
Linus Stevenson Jun 2018
Let me tell you a story
Listen and learn
There was a Shepherd, a good Shepherd
Kind and loving, courageous and strong
He had 100 sheep
and the sheep loved the Shepherd
And so when one sheep wandered
The good Shepherd left the 99
And went after the one

And you might think you know this story
But I'm afraid it's not what you think
Because I am not the one...

I am one of the 99 left behind
Waiting for the Sheppard to return
Trapped by the walls of this fence
The posts and wooden planks
That contain us
Being lead by the very sheep that are
We walk in circles around the pen
Around and around... circles
Eating up the food we have
We begin to eat each other
And as demented as that sounds
It's true
Biting and gnawing
Bleeding and bruising
We turn to other sheep for nourishment
For truth... for guidance
But we are sheep all the same
Another one of the 99 left behind

Sheep is what we are
Be careful not to tater your fur
Careful not to tear or cut
To show the underneath
The skin that doesn't flatter but
Burns with the red of your hate
Your pride... Your sin

When will the Sheppard return
And open the fence
Lead to new grass
and water

There are sheep I've never seen before
Black sheep.
have you seen black sheep?
Yes sheep with spots but these sheep
They are black from head to toe
Their snouts are long and
they have sharp teeth
Strange that they have not hooves but paws
Appearing as wolves wearing sheeps clothing
They are mending the fence
The fence! It's broken!
Suddenly we realize we are not safe
Quickly, grab your hammer and nails!
Let us work with these black sheep...
to mend... the fence... around... us

Who built this fence?
Was it the Sheppard?
Cloudy as my memories be of the man
with the scars in his hands and side
This does not resemble his work
Who... built... these... walls?
These bars... This cell
With no key and a steeple?
Oh God, who built these walls?
No it wasn't the sheppard.
The walls he built had doors
And windows to let the light in
No... We have built these walls
The 99 left behind were not left...
We left.

We left the fence! The pasture!
The place of love and safety.

We are not the 99 left behind but the one
We are the one who wandered and strayed
And seeing that we were in territory unsafe
We built walls without doors
that trapped us inside... in darkness

Sheppard,
Search
Find us
Break down
These walls
Rebuild them
With windows
To let the Light in
Eric Feb 28
Rotten petals are the satelites of shattering
Paper fractured like a mirror
Broken portraits of unrequited love
Torn in triangles and undescribed shapes
Of wrath and anger sour grapes

One heart eaten by the vultures
Bleeding fruit or a rotten steeple

Things went blue and black
Like the ship they wreck
This flower turned to petals
Coloured black,love gone feral
Andrew Jul 2018
Two gods wrestle
Their worshippers watch the quarrel
Each side thinking their god is moral
Until assorted arrangements that are floral
Are all the vehemently victimized poor hold
As loved ones experience death's portal

These gods aren't guys
That fight in the sky
But through you and I
So humans are fried
In our divine divide

Nature's calling
Sends us falling
Into a loose leaf belief
Bereaved coral reef
See we sink core deep
So we see more sleep
Knowing our side is right
We're not killing real people
If they want to have might
They should come to our steeple
tinhearts Jan 2018
Having no light of her own
The moon, a smitten planet
Relying on the reflection of the sun shone
Brighter as she is the outward picture of the soul, just granite

Inwardly the Son shines as she adores Him
He is the flame
Giving her light to receive and live
Walking on the narrow path

Next time you see the brightness of the moon
Give thanks to the Son (Lord Jesus)
Lighting our way to become One
Loving her as she loves Him spirituality mysterious

Everything outward is a picture of the inward
The eclipse of the moon
From the northwest toward
The southeastern
America’s  sign of
doom

A warning of the soul’s rule
Under the captivity of a Babylonian garment
Mingles the *****
****** killing lambs in the church’s embarrassment

Come out of her My People!!!
Adulterated doctrines spilling wine
Under the covert of a religious steeple
Blood stained souls intertwined

The innocent haven’t a clue
Sunday schools happy meal
Jesus came to rescue
Wolves rob and steal

Above the inner eyes insight
Deliverers mounted to save
Filled with the inner light
It’s not too late to change the wave

Three days Salvation plan
The story’s been told
Make a righteous stand
Be brave strong and bold

Don’t wait for destruction
Your soul depends on you
Seek for yourself don’t take my word for conviction
The whole earth is waiting to view

The coming of the Lord Jesus
Finally the moon is under her feet
New Heavens and New Earth reigns praise to Jesus
She’s all aglow being complete

The light of her Love now shines from within
She looks in the mirror to SEE she has become
Perfectly joined to Him
Together as One

All Her Glory is in Him alone

Behold He’s IN You!
*
tinhearts~©️
Eva Aloezos Aug 2018
I quit crying over people,
it goes against my steeple
the one I built in my brain
that convalesces at the peak of my head
surging through my skull
like a tree with flighty roots
I fear petty things, like appearing dull

I am at a loss
a divergent cross
if only there had been a soul
that showed
me
the clear road

a manifestion of all I could be
to dare
show my colors,
and stumble upon personal freedom

however there was not,
much of what I have been taught
caused my neurons to catch on fire
and my ability to regulate my emotions began to rot
so forgive me when I say, you sir are a liar

one who is unfamiliar with my spirit
is clueless to what bind
I have found myself in this week

it is undoubtedly true
I am the queen of self sabotage
what I chase is a mirage
to my dismay, it does not exist in this world;
therefore, what I seek is the unprobable
slipping through my grasp

uncovering my muse is a senseless endeavor to attempt

so quit while you are ahead
your bed
will be covered in smoke and rust
if I stay too long

so pass the ****
play a velvet song
which turns me on

so we can do what we do best
chest to chest
the kindness of everday people
  my mindness towards that steeple
       Impossible, Incredible, Unbelievable...

                        Wendy darling
Michael Marchese Nov 2018
Dread the free time
But still can't wait to have it
To seize peace and quiet
By my force of habit
And flee far away
From a central locale
Of a jobless, impoverished
Human garbage pail
Full of wasted potential
Unutilized power
Another kid lost to disease
By the hour
Devoured from inside out,
Parasitic
A malnourished mortality
Fated statistic
Accounting for little more than
A UN
Detrimental development
Index embellishment
IMF, World Bankers swooping in
Heaven-sent
Millions lent
Never spent
Back on the people
Just keep them like sheep
Marching on to the steeple
And reap what they sow
How so little they yield
Until cityscapes swallow up
Forest and field
And behind their most opulent
Optic facades
In their decadence festers
The graces of Gods
Andrew Jul 2018
A gift to the world
With a rift to unfurl
A new baby girl
Will give it a whirl
But the water will swirl
Around the innocent pearl

A gift for this land
With the perils of man
And nature at hand
Before she can stand
She faces the brand
Of human demands

A gift for the people
She's a glorious sequel
That must build a steeple
Where everyone's equal
And prosper the meek will
On their own free will

A gift
A treasure
Will shift
Our pleasure
From the initial
Superficial
Towards
More words
With each other
As brothers
With a new sister
Removing blisters

A gift for all
She must answer the call
With a chance she'll fall
Into the ways people stall
To avoid an order too tall
Then just block up the hall

We receive the gift of life
From a man and his wife
That they present to humanity
So she may remove our insanity
Disarming the gun they handed me
She unwraps the gift of standing free
Marigolds Fever Nov 2018
Silvery light
Channel a white night
Clear and bright
Crystal ornamental maples
Cranberry leaves
Fall from eaves
Seasonal staples
Pile in gardens
Ground hardens
Below pumpkins
Left in their patch
Tree lights attach
On newly thin branch
Sculptures of ice begin
Beneath each frozen chin
Starry eyes
Blink in dark skies
Hot chocolate creams
Fires pop
Near frozen streams
Ice sculptures silvery light show
By steeple glow
Bells chime
Soft trills
Whiffs of cinnamon bread
In each head
Radiant illuminations
Glare with each stare
Pathway gleams
In silvery light dreams
MARIGOLD’S FEVER 2018
Jaden May 2018
why am i to spend 12 years of my life
learning the same history 12 ways
each year getting more into depth
about how straight, white, and cis,
"all" of history just happens to be
when in reality anything that was ever
deemed abnormal or harmful to america's image
just doesn't get taught.

all these years of being sheltered from the truth
about america the great
has left me with questions i'm scared will go unanswered
and so

I'd like to know which group of old white men
decided erasing history was a good idea
If i'm stuck learning about these so called achievements and revolutions which only came from the self proclaimed superiors
i'd like to know whose idea it was to forget about
The whips cracked in to bleeding black skin
Making it known that my ancestors were no more than a tool
No more than what white men, white masters made them in to
No more than a slave until 1865

I want to know who made it possible for my history teacher to ask me what my opinion on slavery is since i’m the only black kid in sight
When will they teach me why it’s okay for the 20 white kids in my class
To call me their ***** but it’s not okay for me to get mad about it

Please tell me how these people figured out
who all they should kindly choose to silence?
maybe they thought it's too much to cover in class
Since we have to have time to be taught about manifest destiny
And how Americans had every right to take land and lives
Because white men deserve to take what doesn’t belong to them
or maybe it's been deemed inappropriate
because they're too scared to admit
That America would rather hose down black kids
waiting for our skin to become clear and
praying for our melanin to wash off just so they would stop having to look at the skin they deemed sinful
than admit that America loves to make black people fearful.

When are we taught about who chose to write about all of
america's triumphs and good times but
somehow seemed to forget about the scars passed on to me from over 100 years ago
But didn’t know i had until i was ten years old.
And honestly that no longer surprises me i mean
America only speaks of cishet white guys.
and I bet you didn't know about very first *** pride.
It was a series of riots started because America decided
Loving who you want makes you unequal
And the only way to fix that is using force that’s lethal
Force that would leave lovers lives laying in the street like the never even lived
Force that led to June 28th through July 1st becoming riots that didn’t need to happen but the police couldn’t keep their privileged fingers off of *** people
But it’s fine because ignoring that part of history has become an American steeple.

At this point I know all the answers to every test asking about the history you feed us
In attempts to hide the truths of this country that wishes it never freed us
so stop teaching me the same
cis, straight, white history I've already
been taught 10 going on 11 years of my life
because i don't care about the men who wanted to keep my ancestors bound
Or the country that keeps trying to tell me that my love isn’t allowed
i care about the history they'll continue to ignore and erase.
i care about the history America begs me to forget.
mariamme Jan 2
her fingertips met in a steeple
she didn't go to church much
not after time became a thief

the hollow in her heart aches
so she's swallowing words
chasing loops around her neck
unconsecrated prayer,
a noose if you believe in sin

in the counting of breaths
the fear slips in as a hitching
she's still reciting sorrows
laying the loathing out to dry

throes of passion in a painting
it hangs above the dresser
she doesn't look at him bleeding
yeshua, who might've been a king

instead it's to her toes she glances
as the family cat circles;
let it witness the betrayal of a soul
the last light of faith winking out

the rites she was raised on replaced
with deep love and quiet devotion
to not a dying man or distant father

nor a church to worship lies in;
let the man bleed & carry on

this gratitude sings on her lips
old feelings in a new body,
rejoice as the veil slips away

signs of a cross be forgotten
she's met diosa in everything

the paper sins of the bible
melt away at noontide then
it is done, & time is kind now.
02 january 2019
5:37am
kneel at the edge of the mirror
look on yourself and ask
do i look like her, am i she
who has met a god in herself?
Jamison Bell Oct 2018
I hate the tv, I hate The Doors, and I hate this ******* couch.
I don’t like soup, Ellen just *****, and my cat is a ****** slouch.
Both parties ****, Steve Harvey’s an ***, and *** is antifa?
My job’s pretty cool, the pay’s not bad, still *** is antifa?
The *** is good, see I’m not *******, but the milks gone ******* sour.
My dad lost his watch because it’s been ten years and he said he’d be back in an hour.
There’s too much *******, not enough *******, because now there’s too many people.
The reason being, these pious ***** take their orders from a guy in a steeple.
So yeah maybe I’m *******, tuna’s too pricey, and I ****** hate Country.
We get it, you’re drunk, your truck broke down, and your wife left you for Humphrey.
You know what it is? Why I’m this way. A cynical merciless *******.
I’m too **** busy at work all day, when I could be getting plastered.
Ok fine. I’ll stop for now. And you’re all some lucky suckers.
Btw Johnny Cash blows. Take that you bunch of neckbearded *******.
Nathalie Aug 2018
With steeple hands,

She bowed in reverence

Holding the vision

Clearly in her mind’s eye

A remembered commitment

Honouring his words

Speaking of love

A desire greater

Than most…



A dream for a new world

Carrying the highest notes

Of integrity…

Girdling the outer limits of,

Great nobility and generosity

Forgiveness given with free will

A soul that harboured

No resentment or anger

Leaving his soul unblemished



Do we know the difference?

Between acts from the spirit

Or offerings from the ego

And do we pretend to care

Or turn a blind eye to the

Greed of men

Rising the erroneous ones

To Gods

And forgetting the small



The quiet ones

Silenced by the skilled

Faces of deceit

How do we hear?

Through all this

Noise…

The same clamour

Reverberating throughout history



It stops when we stand

And face ourselves

Be mindful of our thoughts

Intentions, words

And our deeds

When we redeem ourselves

To the falsehood

That we ourselves

Have believed for

So very long…



It’s start with every one of us

One by one…

We live in a world

That we create…

And it starts with LOVE…



~Nathalie
Canto I


The Dream is The Dreamer. I Intuit by strife and yards of Sleep.
I know the very secrets that I keep… and keep them coming, from underneath.
I swerve where the world is flat and the stars, less cheap.
All are Suns to plunder for the Heavens that are jealous of the Hells we seek.
Without our barbs, we are wires that electrons elect to flee.
So the light we gather is nothing more than the lies we speak.
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow… is only half as deep.
I tread where the Angels have false hopes
and conquer everything.


Canto II


Somewhere in my Soul is the last gasp I’ve been keeping
for the curtain fall of a dull day, perched on a steeple wilting.
My Church, Flesh, and Blood like any book you’re reading.
I assemble my disassembly with all the fire in my teeth careening.
Top bad for the Lost Ones. The way they trouble the void with wishing.
I summon the marvelous crux of a Fiction I am sincerely believing.
And make it so.


So beautiful… I’m still Alive.
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