The sour taste of wine

Some false bread aged over time

And a quiet pastor of loyalty.

Crying babies of false misery

And the confusion of glass paintings

The colors of Jesus Christ raining.

I stretch myself out and open my mouth

Clicking my smooth Sunday's best boots around.

The quiet and harsh kneeling praise.

I hold a cross made of corn maise.

And my grand father hands me a mint.

But these thoughts just won't quit

On the bleeding holy man in front of me.


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