"worshippers" poems
Day breaks over a sleepy village
Morning absolutions completed
An excited buzz is in the air
Everyone is a buzz with cleaning
Hundreds gather wild flowers in the fertile fields
Many were in charge of raising the fires
Soon the whole town had bright blooms weaved from one end to the next
The horizon alight with smoke and power
Goddess and God rights invoked within circles round
Pulsating, rhythmic energy racing through each dancing body
Gyrating to the cosmic beat of life
Couples jump merrily together over cauldrons ablaze
High hopes rise and give way for dreams of children
Lovers round and round they twine
Maypole ribbons rainbow hued passing through hand to hand
As dusk falls the Queen is crowned
Mead flows freely through the jubilant worshippers
The moon hangs round with fullness above their heads
Lighting the way for love into the night
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
The flag, a white crescent and single star
on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' —
tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı
at pavement tables, even in Ramadan,
and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls,
parading with bare-faced confidence,
tell of other influences;
but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer
from the marble minaret, a slim finger
pointing to the sky beside shining domes
reflecting the vault of heaven.
At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing,
or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle,
and we remember where we are.
But especially at the midday hour,
when the voice of the muezzin echoes
over noisy street or market,
and from another minaret and another
the duet becomes a trio, a quartet
of different melodies, out of tune
with each other but never discordant
(in these tones the word has no meaning),
the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be,
that their God requires something of them.
Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque,
entering the quiet forest of pillars,
feeling through the soles of our bare feet
marble polished by the tread
of generations of worshippers,
fine-grained wood,
the rich softness of crimson carpet,
we luxuriate in the textures as they combine
with the formal floral patterns of the tiles,
the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions,
the rich colours of the glass,
and we realise that the builders of these mosques
knew what they were doing, so many years ago,
how peace can enter the soul
through the senses.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
love is a weird thing.
love wrapped his arms around you sometimes like always and
maybe this is what the hopeless romantics meant when they said sometimes home is not a place
love is like religion
where the worshippers would never hesitate to jump from the highest mountain to the lowest surface of the ocean
your head will bleed and you will still carve smiles using your lips, followed by the eyes and say thank you
how silly-
when he smiles
all the wilt flowers come back to life and bloom
and bloom
and bloom like its a spring season in december
its august and its rainy here but flowers
they last longer when he grins from ear to ear
like a silly man, like a precious silly bean
when he laughs
the chaos in my mind disappear
all the tics and all the screams up there just went quiet
its the moment of contentment
i wish to last
maybe not forever but give me a moment.
i can't stand eye contact
so i stare at him when he's not looking
and oh dear god
if this is a dream, i wouldn't mind trapped here
i wouldn't mind encounter the demons i see in the corner of my bed
i would approach them, shake their hands like an old friend
as long as i can be with him
for a little longer
but
when those lips spill the word love
i don't recognise it
h e l p me-
hate is the opposite word of love and
my doubts are loud
i hate the fact that my doubts are draining his love for me
my eyes are covered
and my ears are being plugged with earphones whispering he's lying.
my love,
i love you
i'm scared of heights but i'm an idiot and i would jump from the highest mountain in the name of love.
please-
i said please-
do not get tired of me
i want to trust you
let me put my trust on you
i'm trying.
i promise.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
The bonfire was loaded
With exiting tales
Our forerunners legendary
Exploit's these daggers
Cut deep trenches in
Our mindseye we felt
Like the next generation
Of wrath true tales from
A culture of devil worshippers
Yet the tongue's wielding
The blade was non the wiser
Our innate minds chewd
Every word our lives Satan's
Recycling bin two five ten
Deaths and many generations
After we now realised that
We have to cut out the blade
From these forked tongued
Folk tales that whispers filth
Unto the unsuspecting ears
Of our beautiful children
Heroism emenating from
The subculture of criminality
And gangsterism must no
Longer be tolerated it have savaged
The Innocence of young lives
For far too long
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
Virtue runs before the muse
And defies her skill,
She is rapt, and doth refuse
To wait a painter's will.
Star-adoring, occupied,
Virtue cannot bend her,
Just to please a poet's pride,
To parade her splendor.
The bard must be with good intent
No more his, but hers,
Throw away his pen and paint,
Kneel with worshippers.
Then, perchance, a sunny ray
From the heaven of fire,
His lost tools may over-pay,
And better his desire.
4.6k
Sun slits in through slats
of kitchen window blinds
and she is alone.
The art major is cooking
spaghetti,
pretending her thrifted T-shirt
bearing a cotton copy
of Campbell's Soup Cans
is not stained with tears and blood.
Oh, but that's hysterics and
hyperbole;
art has a tendency of making its worshippers
melodramatic...no?
The blood is only tomato sauce
and the tears...
well, what are tears but
water and salt?
After all, dramatizing the
mundane is just one awkward shade
of artistic temperament.
Visualizing life through
a heavy silk screen.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is redder and
redder as she cooks.
Just as
her paintings bleed more blood
as she dangles a brush over them -
the teary-eyed watercolours.
The art major has decided
that drawing out extremities
of colour
might transform
her own life into
a pop of a Warhol painting.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
She thinks, tries to
think
in technicolour.
Today's thought-pencilled thesis
concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that
love is the red of tomato soup cans.
Anger is the boil, passion is
the gulp,
danger, caution, warning,
the hot breaths, fleeting warmths,
the burn and sweet and tang.
She looks down at the
scarlet of
Warhol's soup cans,
blooming in worn out cotton
on her chest.
It might as well be blood, she
thinks.
It is,
it is,
it is.
Blood red love -
tomato soup cans.
Sun sets in slits
through kitchen window blinds
and she is still alone.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is ready.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
Your hope in my heart is the rarest treasure
Your Name on my tongue is the sweetest word
My choicest hours
Are the hours I spend with You --
O Allah, I can't live in this world
Without remembering You--
How can I endure the next world
Without seeing Your face?
I am a stranger in Your country
And lonely among Your worshippers:
This is the substance of my complaint.
3k
The South wind said to the palms:
My lovers sing me psalms;
But are they as warm as those
That Laylah's lover knows?
The North wind said to the firs:
I have my worshippers;
But are they as keen as hers?
The East wind said to the cedars:
My friends are no seceders;
But is their faith to me
As firm as his faith must be?
The West wind said to the yews:
My children are pure as dews;
But what of her lover's muse?
So to spite the summer weather
The four winds howled together.
But a great Voice from above
Cried: What do you know of love?
Do you think all nature worth
The littlest life upon earth?
I made the germ and the ant,
The tiger and elephant.
In the least of these there is more
Than your elemental war.
And the lovers whom ye slight
Are precious in my sight.
Peace to your mischief-brewing!
I love to watch their wooing.
Of all this Laylah heard
Never a word.
She lay beneath the trees
With her lover at her knees.
He sang of God above
And of love.
She lay at his side
Well satisfied,
And at set of sun
They were one.
Before they slept her pure smile curled;
"God bless all lovers in the World!"
And so say I the self-same word;
Nor doubt God heard.
2.9k
Virtue runs before the muse
And defies her skill,
She is rapt, and doth refuse
To wait a painter's will.
Star-adoring, occupied,
Virtue cannot bend her,
Just to please a poet's pride,
To parade her splendor.
The bard must be with good intent
No more his, but hers,
Throw away his pen and paint,
Kneel with worshippers.
Then, perchance, a sunny ray
From the heaven of fire,
His lost tools may over-pay,
And better his desire.
2.7k
Softness of her nervous slim hands,
Ostensibly glad meeting me she was.
For so many happy days yet to come,
Again not letting differences pop-up,
Rosy blush dropping in her cheeks.
Yes that makes her look even cuter,
Exceptionally cute she is so beautiful,
Tomorrow our baby will be even cuter.
Ship of combined life we sail in together,
On time we'll make it to the destination.
Casting bright shadows of ours we tread,
Looping circle of happiness we rejoice,
Of our feelings we are worshippers,
Setting the same destination from different roads,
Earning trust, respect, love, sensuality & care as we go on.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Inadequate to the task
Humbled by the enormity of our love,
The perfection of our joining,
Where are the words kept that sufficient
Honor and portray what we have achieved?
You seated, beside me by the bay, finally,
Two old adirondack trees side by side,
By the sheltered place you bequeathed me,
Where poems are raindrops, so numerous,
And you, if not the subject, the source.
The waves rolling in, mirror the
Fluidity of thy dancing,
Fluidity of the adaptation,
Two lives, now one bay blue colored,
The merging, the unification,
Many waves, but one bay,
The Bay of Us.
Yet so different.
We are cloud worshippers,
Does not the Skye's Tableau inconstancy,
Mirror our ever changing form, individuality,
Yet, one sky,
The Sky of Us.
So many times have I lain be-sided
Even as we this afternoon sit now a-sided,
Tears welling up, above and beyond control,
This man's steady nerves, constant on patrol,
Our secret open, visible, un-hided,
Your are my Magi
My Yogi,
i.am, your, obedient devotee, shaped to you please.
This is the birthday present my words present.
Words, unremarkable,
Except for the contentment
That lies within them.
Let me love you more,
Recklessly abandon norms,
Kiss you at the supermarket, at the opera,
Unashamedly, take you in my arms
Wherever wonderment and wandering lead us.
T'is so very hard to compose
When tears flow upon my writing tablet,
To wipe, blot them away, I refuse,
For tears are joyous emblems,
Salty badges of love,
All compliments of our complementary beings,
The Tears of Us.
The soaring music we gather in.
The shimmering sparkles upon the bay,
My gift of natural diamonds better, this day,
Than jeweled glitterati I hide in the refrigerator.
All this treasure, part and sparkle of
The Treasure of Us.
T'is truth,
I know not, forgot, your age nor care,
The day the time the year,
What matter they to me these artifice markers,
I weep carelessly, undone, overcome,
Every day, but this day, most, united joy.
Need-No reminder,
I am a survivor,
From a concentration camp
That slow programmed to destroy,
Perhaps the kindness you claim
As the hallmark of my fame,
An inadvertent gift, from the devil?
You shook my hand on our first meet,
Don't think, have I ever let go?
Let me be your driver, entertainer, your only poet,
Let me be whatever you need,
Even as now, I laugh-cry, your tissue carrier.
For t'is I who weeps and keeps
These tissues as part of our history.
You are the first,
Who has ever read
The Words of Us.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged
sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls
coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of
sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched
between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless
pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in,
black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams,
itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach
In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces
tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud
their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering
dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds
Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning
the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles.
Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light
heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune
Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected
sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff
breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so
torrents rushed in where fools once lay
A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm
minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief.
Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter,
chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Streets painted with love
Now stained with blood
Allah, the all loving
Has taught nothing but kindness
His love hates the blood under your nails
His love is benevolent
His love is TERRORISM BECAUSE OF YOU
Any news is good news for satin
The Devil's name flashing across or television screens
"Islamic State claims attacks on Paris"
********
You tarnish the name of peaceful worshippers
You ruined refugees chances at a better life
More lives will be lost at the hands of racists
BECAUSE OF YOU
This attack on the west has done nothing for Allah
But hurt his followers
And hurt their families
Satin's satire stained the streets of love forever
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
~
i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.
i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!
~
*post script.
by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious. reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...*
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
Go, dumb-born book,
Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes:
Hadst thou but song
As thou hast subjects known,
Then were there cause in thee that should condone
Even my faults that heavy upon me lie,
And build her glories their longevity.
Tell her that sheds
Such treasure in the air,
Recking naught else but that her graces give
Life to the moment,
I would bid them live
As roses might, in magic amber laid,
Red overwrought with orange and all made
One substance and one color
Braving time.
Tell her that goes
With song upon her lips
But sings not out the song, nor knows
The maker of it, some other mouth
May be as fair as hers,
Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers,
When our two dusts with Waller’s shall be laid,
Siftings on siftings in oblivion,
Till change hath broken down
All things save beauty alone.
2k
Love's worshippers alone can know
The thousand mysteries that are his;
His blazing torch, his twanging bow,
His blooming age are mysteries.
A charming science--but the day
Were all too short to con it o'er;
So take of me this little lay,
A sample of its boundless lore.
As once, beneath the fragrant shade
Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air,
The children, Love and Folly, played--
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.
Love said the gods should do him right--
But Folly vowed to do it then,
And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight,
So hard, he never saw again.
His lovely mother's grief was deep,
She called for vengeance on the deed;
A beauty does not vainly weep,
Nor coldly does a mother plead.
A shade came o'er the eternal bliss
That fills the dwellers of the skies;
Even stony-hearted Nemesis,
And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes.
"Behold," she said, "this lovely boy,"
While streamed afresh her graceful tears,
"Immortal, yet shut out from joy
And sunshine, all his future years.
The child can never take, you see,
A single step without a staff--
The harshest punishment would be
Too lenient for the crime by half."
All said that Love had suffered wrong,
And well that wrong should be repaid;
Then weighed the public interest long,
And long the party's interest weighed.
And thus decreed the court above--
"Since Love is blind from Folly's blow,
Let Folly be the guide of Love,
Where'er the boy may choose to go."
1.9k
Tossing to and fro as if combating a hostile sea/ dark thoughts cloud the inner sanctum of my mind/ the distress, the bitterness, the anguish, the grief, the sadness, the lonliness, the unfathomably lustful pain/ that I face burn with the intensity of the fires of hell that await me/ Guardians of chaos; harvesters of damsels come for me that I drown in their sins/ rip the fabric of my consciousness asunder/ my ***** sing an aria of sorrow, listen to the requiem of the ****** a miasma of death flood my bowels/ decay enters my womb and I plunge deeper into madness/ I'm an error; a fault of life as the demonic servants consume my flesh for what feels like a eternity/ as we desend in to the pit of blasphemy, defilement, pagans, and idol worshippers/ he deprives my spirit of the rightousness, tears it from its mortal bond and it unfurls into a ethereal cloud of emptiness/ being ravaged my capture looks off in the distance as if performing an exhibition/ with every touch I feel dead inside all the while the nightmare watches with a disgustingly grim grin....
This was written for a art history class inspired by "The Nightmare" by Henry Fuseli
Tell me what you think of the interpretation!!
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
Hold up with that block chain
conflicted economy
keep up the complaints gain
Fall in line with wannabes
Situate yourself into a failing position
Cross the line of chance and miracles without decision
Are you listening to the rhythm or are you trying to glisten on
Shining blindin yourself and everyone you’re walk-in on
Hold a second crazy cuz I’m busy for your hazy mess
Crowded in my head but world is filled with emptiness
Glamour baby
Watch out
Tear at the game
Hear them shout
Test my circuits
Freak out
Sparkin in your eyes
Get down
I’m searching for equality, but let me play don’t bother me
Addicted to the gifted that you try to clone in quantity
Sober up while gettin lit
Fill our cup don’t ever quit
Seeking self control inside of every little hit
Spare the change
Stay the same
It’s a **** shame
We’re all insane
Can’t contain
Past remains
Thinking that we like the pain
Universal consciousness
Never kiss
Heavens bliss
Shake the earth with every moment captivated by a wish
Cold and calculated marketed discrimination
Switch the station work do wages go through phases different stages
Visitation rights to our ancestors blight
Fuel fire engaged engines blast and burn it bright
Out of sight
Out of energy
Not quite, close so let it be
Do you feel me
Come fair to be free
work the weight til they bury me
Commemorate the warriors, fighting behind enemy lines, with idols and worshippers for a war designed to ruin all sides
Guinea pigs
Flipping tricks
Scary that we handle bricks
Galactic motivation cuz they know there’s something more than this
Space it out
Dimension strong
Definitive in guessing the irony of being wrong
Template made
Run the track
Tie shoes or you may never come back
Lock and load
Here we go
Infinity
Now end this show
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
Filled with beauty.
Filled with admiration.
An admiration louder than scorn.
These yellow giants stare at their goddess in awe.
They’re happy flowers with smiley faces,
sun praising angels.
That when their goddess’s light is unveiled, they shower in her glistened kisses.
Though when she leaves, they sense her absence, and are left with the feeling of unpleasance.
Such graceful worshippers can’t help but embody the sun.
Amber, a sort of honey glow color, within each petal, of each sunflower.
Sky high, it’s green stems towers it’s environment.
Towers it like an ocean-cliff.
Vibrant and warm.
As free as air, they stand tremendously stunning and yellow.
That yellow.
The yellow from a lemon.
The yellow so bright, so alive,
like their goddess’s.
These yellow flowers,
These yellow giants,
Are the sun’s very own yellow guardians.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC
The pale ghost of dawn
A grove of trees
Faded derelicts
Without leaves
A tracery of branches
Bent and twisted
Shades of grey
On a cold, grim day.
Disaffection
Evil minds online
Contempt fro coquetry
Worshippers of perversity
A prelude to profanity
Barely covering
Membranes of morality
On the dark side of the mind.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
The fresh savannas of the Sangamon
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;
The wanderers of the prairie know them well,
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.
Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and ****** solitude,
The faded fancies of an elder world;
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,
To swell the reddening fruit that even now
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.
But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well--
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves,
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone--
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,
And part with little hands the spiky grass;
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.
1.4k
Yes, tell us
of your Trump love,
your tough love;
shout it from the rooftops
while encouraging ******
in a mosque.
Tell us how poetic you are,
you the rearguard
of fascist white power
as worshippers are showered
with bullets from above.
You want to talk about cowards,
or standing with the Sioux
at Standing Rock?
Let me hear your hypocrisy
little miss sunshine,
just one more time.
And you, the defenders
of ignorance,
can kiss my po ***
along with the *******
wannabe poets
who hate the truth
when it shines.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
Love's worshippers alone can know
The thousand mysteries that are his;
His blazing torch, his twanging bow,
His blooming age are mysteries.
A charming science--but the day
Were all too short to con it o'er;
So take of me this little lay,
A sample of its boundless lore.
As once, beneath the fragrant shade
Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air,
The children, Love and Folly, played--
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.
Love said the gods should do him right--
But Folly vowed to do it then,
And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight,
So hard he never saw again.
His lovely mother's grief was deep,
She called for vengeance on the deed;
A beauty does not vainly weep,
Nor coldly does a mother plead.
A shade came o'er the eternal bliss
That fills the dwellers of the skies;
Even stony-hearted Nemesis,
And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes.
"Behold," she said, "this lovely boy,"
While streamed afresh her graceful tears,
"Immortal, yet shut out from joy
And sunshine, all his future years.
The child can never take, you see,
A single step without a staff--
The harshest punishment would be
Too lenient for the crime by half."
All said that Love had suffered wrong,
And well that wrong should be repaid;
Then weighed the public interest long,
And long the party's interest weighed.
And thus decreed the court above--
"Since Love is blind from Folly's blow,
Let Folly be the guide of Love,
Where'er the boy may choose to go."
1.3k
Sir Isaac Newton wasn't "using his head"
When the "aha moment" fruit fell
He assumed it was gravity, an attraction to the earth
It was weight and decay rate, no romantic pell
Many scream "separation of church and state"
In the Constitution you will not find that phrase
But in a personal letter to the Danbury congregation
It has been arbitrarily elevated to "law" in our nation
In the Scopes trial Evolution was criticized
Scopes was arrested, the masses cried "victimized"
To play on the "heart-strings" of the "under-educated"
Those worshippers of Evolution were placated
Hypocrites obscuring all God-given laws
Building a "strawman" with individual straws
Satan has questioned all God's "thou shalt nots"
NASA has filmed in a studio basement "our Astro-nots"
Jesus' words have been futurized by Baptist dispensation
Jesus said plainly it's "in this generation"
Scripture is not a "wax nose" you can eisegete
Exegete in the present tense Greek
How do we equitably represent all voices, in a
Public school system that claims they consider all choices
Public schools don't exist, "special agendized" schools do
Claiming universal intolerance, they're intolerant of truth
Let us say in the "Dagon bye" to all "blessings in disguise"
We'll be in[spire]d by the "blessings in the skies"
We're all from Adam's atoms by God's sovereignty
Lord roll my soul in humility, cajole my spirit patiently
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 11:25 PM UTC