I want to believe
in a power beyond my own.
In trust, in faith - to be naïve;
my heart no longer harbor in stone.
Can I be freed by those who trail,
misspoken words of no avail,
from a God who’s presence is so cold?
A dire time eats my will.
Disparity seals my heart that I’m
finding refuge in his petty shrill.
My voice; no more words
than scriptures laced with lines that blur.
Spoken truth I do prefer
then be amongst rows of statues,
extremely lonely.
Pity enables the foolish kind,
saluting a welcomed anguish.
A guide who tames the deaf and blind
with a fallacious love he bestows.
My tired self has drowned,
in convenience that I have found,
to burn my eyes with such a sound
as piercing as gospels sang by the partisan of Satan.
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