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A cold June morning, Shivering in a choir loft, Full of song, laughing.   A warm autumn night, Packed into an upper room— Old tales are made new.   A gath’ring of friends,
Some dark nights I think about Hell and of death, Of torture and devils and cold demon-breath.     A monk, a professor, a seer, a writer,     In my half-asleep mind debate on hellfire.  
The first came on a white horse.  A pure white horse, so it was welcomed. With open arms and minds.  It was embraced. It was the illusion of progress, it was wanting more, more, more.
I heard about someone who discouraged a brother from going to seminary
Consider Judas Iscariot, son Of Simon, follower of Christ the Lord. Their souls were knit, and became as if one, His heart's best brother, above all adored.   Consider this; a favor, asked by a friend,
His kind was not meant to dream—no, that gift Was reserved for others.  Not for him. But he did dream—horribly vivid, raw Dreams of blood and triumph and ichor.
I'm seventeen years old. Sitting in my theology class next to my best friend, the priest at the front of the room announces today we will be talking about the wonders of reproduction
“Leash and Collar” The wind came by and picked me up My heart dropped down but my body flew up I dreamt a pile of words Then woke up and threw up
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