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Liberty's delight is blazing
a brilliance which she howls as a beam.
That harsh gleam is softened
by the deceptive blush of a tacky cathedral window.    

Tongue flicks, flickers, this tricks—
That gross dialect.
Awkward, and pretentious, and flamboyant vein,
its often open ended.  

As he speaks his tongue lashes
like a thick rug is whipped around, dusted out.
Tamed by his teeth to annunciate a strident vowel and seldom otherwise.  

It does filth the air.
******—
                       I don’t like it at all.                    

Fathers, sons, and brothers—
who are hacking up phlegm;
barking back at mothers
that hack up phlegm back.
The derived from who turn and detest it
with the maternal disgrace.

A man strays from all virtue once he has turned away from his derivative.

Lesser men saying, “yes, let’s”—
They follow and they wallow in adoration.

Why does he abide by his assignment?
Many seem proficient enough to assign it.
They give him his strident vowels.

Why does he wish for a creed?
To be pleased in his pursuit of a satisfactory compatriot.
A peer is a prole is a liability.
Himself, and his Lord, and he.

A few men posses an increasingly uncommon quality;
they've got a light on in their heads.
He flinches, he's cowering.

He pulls his tired arm up into a salute;
shades a squinting gaze from the bright.

An instinctive gesture is heretical still.


( . . . )

My attention is brought back to God
and for the first time I see his face;
contorted, as one would be in the presence of disgrace.

The superior, holy light of his demeanor suggest
he knows all transgressions, disregarding confess.

He turns the other cheek.

And though he’s averted his furrowed gaze,
the weight of his judgment stays.

Kingdom, come! And will be done, I do believe—
I still see the face of god, and he, I.
But, I cannot reach it.

This is not so nice as my lavish sacristy.
open to interpretation.
Scarfing down a ceiling of clouds in great big portions.
He's feeling very full for it.

A breaching blue cavity
defiles the white and delightsome sky.
Heavens gate is beyond this
miserable indigo hiatus.

Fuller for it like the creek after rain,
and lain down like a dog after fodder.
Breathing out fog in relief.
Sticky phlegm is tacking within his ribs at the release.

With his posture slacking
the rows of marrow creak.
Dew accumulates down
the strip of bone and leaks.

The drops,
they doze off and plummet too,
in a lethargic trickling-dribble.

Its pathetic.

Just as one drop of rain cannot be blamed for the shower
among the guilty masses he'll cower.

And the men who desecrate nature
are running over with it still.
Being adjacent to it;
defile is abysmal.

he looks straight through the glass, past his reflection,

and at the eye sore in the front yard,
and at the county permit.

And with a wooden vice—
a wooden axe,
he’s got the trees own conception.

With 20 or so ironic,
humiliating blows

nature is beaten down by its own derivative twice.

Witnessing this is a daemon,
going to flog a dead dog out of boredom.

And he would do it,
he would.

It will do.
open to interpretation!

— The End —