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Crown of thorns, cracked ceramic altar.
In the cracks lived a family of ants, they’ve always been here, long before the Romanians

The family on the mind of the Bishop and the Server, gotta get their house in order, but before they do they find the answer.
The house was made of glass

Pictures of airplanes, fragments of feeling drifting through the air, tossed roughly like the paper bag in the wind. The sun lends it the quality of a golden halo

He walked past him in the street, crossed over to avoid him. To avoid the guilty feeling in his pit. All because he got angry once or twice as a kid; his only real crime was that he didn’t get angry thrice or more

Three is the number, father son and raise a toast to the tainted clown who laughs away his tears

A tomb on the stage, yet standing at the foot never raised a feeling. Oh he tried but his eye was dry, but he got the meaning

Looking in the mirror, dark shadows where there used to be youth. He imagines his face without skin, a skull.
Black Golgotha, flesh and bone. A term without mercy a time to throw stones

Dice and nails, wine and bread. Beggars begging, the sign in the bed. Fabled apostle at the entrance of noon. Ride on ride on, the silence a boon.

Copyright John de Gruyther 2015

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