Snail ..... moves .... across .... my .... page.
How many times must I turn him over,
saying my prayers to the blood red cross,
the bright light himself obscured from vision
by the looming grey church, full of shadows and shrouds,
dusty coloured glass inscribed with a dead language.
Sun ..... lost ..... behind .... the .... sage.
Sometimes wisdom is the greatest sin.
Perhaps I will sit in my cathedral of trees,
where the Sun shines clear onto the altar of senses,
illuminating divine love in all things.
Linear Mode
