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On Jesus's Tales :On Jesus's Tales
On Jesus's Tales :
Belief,
What I Ever Meant Of This Mere Natural Phrase ?, To Chase The Mere Mortals Or His Morality To Caress,
For The Nature To Dress With His Embrace, With Leafs, With Stalks, With Shallow Tangled Vineyards To The Mortal Loss,
With Breeze Enough To Sweep The Very Human Ghastly Gore, Love To The Midst To Strangle The Abhorrent Show,
So Pure To Purify The Impurities Of Such Impudent Smiles,
For The Stakes Called To Divine, For The Divinity To Shine,
In The Mines Of Those Dreads Once Dug To Reconcile, For Those Endangered Abstract Eyes To Foresee What Lies,
In The Kingdom He Seeks, To Glance The Mere Mortal Needs,
Faith,
What Faith Was To This Sanity Ever ?, He Spoken To It,
The Very Ballad Of His Realm Never, Ever To The Broken Stones, The Teared Grass, The Broken Smeared Gentle White Tars, In The Very Blood, The Wine Of The Very Earthly Cast,
In His Kingdom He Seeks, The Broken At This Feets, The Blind To See What Lies Beneath This Drowsy Little Breaths, The Leprose Be Pleased To The Very Earthly Nile, For His Whimsical, Ghastly, Dear Father To Smile,
Faith,
Was Just His Dearest Preached Orchestra , To This Mere Mortal Terra, To Believe His Belief, For The Sake Of Believing The Impeccable Immaculate,
The Heart Of Clay That Brimmed To Breath, The Breath Whisked With Gentleness With Each Dearest Erst ,
The Very Smile He Ever Laid To Someone's Face, The Very Light His Smile Ever Bowed To The Disabled,
To Be Truthful To The Heart Wrenched Galland Gales Of Whisky Brisky Galls Of Twisted Truths,
For The Bruises So Shallow Edged With Raw Laughs, The Very Gentle Spirit Of The Holy, Graciously Cradles Those Very Coughs,
Faith Is His Charter To Seek A Man, To Witness The Truth With Cursed Meticulous Ballads,
To Believe His Being To Beings Conscience, To Treat The Very Wrath With Gentleness Sweeped Gracious Smiles, To Love, To Live A Beautiful Drastic Lie,
With Busted Souls, With Wrenched Fouls, Treachery's Moulds,
In The Man's Terra,
The Bustling Busted Trenches Of The Man's Wine, A Horde Of Those Delicate Lies, In The Fathoms To Dine , The Blood And The Crimson Skies,
To This Bespoken Teared Braised King He Called, To His Unspoken Treacherous Manly Realms,
The King Sinful Of His Dearest Battered Stacked Sins, The Sinner Of Those Sins He Was Destined To Be Sinful Of, Not The Very Sin He Sinned To,
The Gluttony Of Him To Praise The Lord, The Orchestrated God He Hymned To Abhor,
The Facade He Trenched To Brine The Very Souls In The Wine Of Cana, In The Withered Shredded Bearded Greased Lazarus's Plaza,
He Was But A Faith To The Cultist Of His Culture Of The Revered Endangered Foreseen Lord,
A Lord Speaking In Ornamented Material Parables He Called,
To Seek His Preached Treacherous Realm Of Man In The Words Of Mortal Gods, To Damn The Damnation Of His Calls,
He Chose,
The Broken Sheep, The Old Bended Twisted Intaken Shepherd, With A Very Loved Hall,
Just Spoken Of An Unwithered To Understand,
To Seek That Ritualized Abhorrent Something, Which Is Something To The Damnation And To Their Inverse Invasive Incumbent Seeking, Seeks To Be That Manifested Groaned Something, Not That Bruised Impeccable Something When Being Seen To The Withered Shredded Piece Of That Very Oconee Bell's Leaf, Unsheathes To The Heath Of Something, He Ever Tried To Seek,
His Tales,
Impeccable Immaculate Drooled To This Mortal Fools Of This Weathered Grass, They Seek To The Flower Of Heinous Blooded Brass, To Seek The Shimmering Starving Crippling Of Fools, The Mere Astonishing Abolishing Scrutinous Divine Tools,
To This Mortal Realm Of,
The Luscious Blooded Grass, The Cold Blooded Hay, The Stillness Of That Wining Past, The Blood Dread Soothing Deaths Ever Cheering Hearts,
The Little Belittle Unveiling Lord He Said To Errand,
Too Fragile, Too Shriveled, Too Blatantly Blandly Vigorously Shredded To The Forsaken,
The Man's Indisputable Indispensable Slithering Shuttering, Too Twisted To Understand.
On Jesus's Tales:
Belief,
What did I ever mean by this simple natural phrase? To pursue mere humans or to cherish his goodness?
For nature to be adorned with his hug, With leaves, With stems, With shallow tangled grapevines leading to human loss,
With a breeze strong enough to sweep away human horrors, Love in the middle to choke the horrible display,
So pure as to cleanse the flaws of such bold smiles,
For the stakes called to the holy, For holiness to shine,
In the mines of those fears once dug to make peace, For those endangered abstract eyes to foresee what lies ahead,
In the kingdom he seeks, To glance at mere human needs,
Faith,
What was faith to this sanity ever? He spoke to it,
The very song of his realm never, Ever to the broken stones, The torn grass, The broken smeared gentle white tars, In the very blood, The wine of the very earthly cast,
In his kingdom he seeks, The broken at his feet, The blind to see what lies beneath these sleepy little breaths, The lepers to be pleased by the very earthly Nile, For his whimsical, ghastly, dear father to smile,
Faith,
Was just his dearest preached orchestra, To this mere human earth, To believe his belief, For the sake of believing the flawless pure,
The heart of clay that brimmed to breathe, The breath whisked with gentleness with each dearest first,
The very smile he ever laid on someone's face, The very light his smile ever bowed to the disabled,
To be truthful to the heart-wrenching brave winds of whiskey brisk gales of twisted truths,
For the bruises so shallow-edged with raw laughs, The very gentle spirit of the holy, Graciously cradles those very coughs,
Faith is his charter to seek a man, To witness the truth with cursed careful songs,
To believe his being to beings' conscience, To treat the very anger with gentleness swept gracious smiles, To love, To live a beautiful drastic lie,
With broken souls, With twisted fouls, Treachery's molds,
In man's earth,
The bustling broken trenches of man's wine, A horde of those delicate lies, In the depths to dine, The blood and the crimson skies,
To this spoken torn braised king he called, To his unspoken treacherous manly realms,
The king sinful of his dearest battered stacked sins, The sinner of those sins he was destined to be sinful of, Not the very sin he sinned to,
The gluttony of him to praise the Lord, The orchestrated God he hymned to Abhor,
The facade he trenched to brine the very souls in the wine of Cana, In the withered shredded bearded greased Lazarus's plaza,
He was but a faith to the cultist of his culture of the revered endangered foreseen Lord,
A Lord speaking in ornamented material stories he called,
To seek his preached treacherous realm of man in the words of mortal gods, To damn the damnation of his calls,
He chose,
The broken sheep, The old bent twisted taken shepherd, With a very loved hall,
Just spoken of an unwithered to understand,
To seek that ritualized horrible something, Which is something to the damnation and to their inverse invasive incumbent seeking, Seeks to be that manifested groaned something, Not that bruised flawless something when being seen to the withered shredded piece of that very Oconee Bell's leaf, Unsheathes to the heath of something, He ever tried to seek,
His tales,
Flawless pure drooled to these mortal fools of this weathered grass, They seek the flower of heinous blooded brass, To seek the shimmering starving crippling of fools, The mere astonishing abolishing careful divine tools,
To this mortal realm of,
The luscious blooded grass, The cold blooded hay, The stillness of that winning past, The blood dread soothing deaths ever cheering hearts,
The little belittled unveiling Lord he said to errand,
Too fragile, Too shriveled, Too blatantly blandly vigorously shredded to the forsaken,
The man's indisputable indispensable slithering shuttering, Too twisted to understand.