Don’t renovate the hate
That
separates
But restore the core
Of what Christ spake
Resurrect the circumspect
Of words
that uphold the bold
My soul is sold
Not to the words of this world,
The cold
The soiled and spoiled
The bruised and misused
But the words of old
A mould that folds
And surrounds me
It doesn’t crowd me
The Love from above that tells me
Christ’s pain was insane
And for me a gain
The breath of death
Bereft of gravity,
insanity
And more humanity
So we perceive
From Him to receive
The wings of clarity
To cruise unbruised
On the wings of our own reality
Willem Taute