Lines of my history
Scratched deep in my face
Reflects the pain of remembrance
And the stain, of God’s grace.
Lines of your history
Etched deep from within
Detects the presence of pretense
In God’s pressure, to win.
Lines of our history
An arched angel within
Denies the posture of pressure
In God’s sojourn, of sin.
a depening fire
a santa ana flame
a delicate reaction
to wild and darkening shame.
Consummate lessons
Of painful detail
Begs for forgiveness
In the world of betrayal.
Countenance leanings
Of darkening tales
Makes wishing for forgiveness
A hollow right, of the frail.
The counting of tries
Denies
Your influence voice
Amongst fervent
Natural cries.
The telling of truths
Tries
To correct your influence
Amongst your natural
Lies.
Soul sideways slipping
Down a deceptive silent lane
Makes the meeting of my maker
The maker of my pain.
Intellectual laziness
born quietly
from within
creeps slowly
in your consciousness
striving hard
not to win.
Darkness comes to us all
In time
Regardless of any
Choired rhyme
A single day
A desperate find
In the end
We hope
That fate
Is kind.
A failure complete
Is a failure combined
By acceding is existance
It becomes a failure of mind.
Photons and phonon’s
Are integral
In theme
To the wave smashing code base
The light of a first
Machine.
I have only the neutral
Of thought.
No worries
No anger
No pain
No vengeance
I am the exact equal
Of nothing.
