I am growing and breaking. Inhaling and growing, then breaking again.
The old lady with loose teeth and absent underwear is my epiphany,
while I am a ritual of Ephesian prayer.
I shall bang and beg the Muslims to surrender Allah to her grief.
For lines of my hair are a paraplegia plague carrying the infant brother into a clouded shame of my nostalgic doubt.
As faithful as I am, I am as foolish as well, bringing gold and frankincense to the President’s anti-christ.
As I am much of a republican, I am as giving to the San Francisco shelter, raving gentles for me to handle with horny drought.
The Agnostic fear the responsibilities of mistake and lost Joesph, James, or Jake along the way.
Which is a simple, reasonable cause of the heartache I played, in guilt of my master and cum.
To find God is to seek through her bushes.
I am ill with a Glaucoma touch from her face.
I am without fingers to meet religious state.
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