Ash and palm, burnt black, caked to my forehead,
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for we are the children of faith in dead gods.
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Fear not bedrooms nor states, as they are merely the bait,
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and hate is still the sermon of this mass.
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I have lost the nerve to listen about hellfire, brimstone, self-guilt and atonement.
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How could I sanctify a union?
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I'm re-thinking gender as pink and blue holding cells.
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Triumvirate of old shame, old hate and apologia.
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We fear to death the father, in the son's bedroom.
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Give up on the ghost, Padre, he's keeping it quiet.
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Are we not as strong as gods we've killed and proved wrong?
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Change comes slowly.
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Can you bare the weight of the first sin and prisoner's fate?
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I gained from picking scabs, my wherewithal, my open tabs.
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Rosaries our fists, thanks to the fates I kissed.
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Burn up every bill on the table, deny any oath we swore.
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What about all the love in my brother?
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Growing up thinking it was wrong.
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Stones thrown had wings of scripture, so olly-olly-oxen free,
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you better read up, boy, kneel down and get praying.
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I got a Mother Mary says I'll get to you first.
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Deny that I could be as strong, and you'll soon regret it.
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Deny that I could last as long and I'll bury the last to say it.
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Idle hands, safer beds, quiet minds, take this to bed.
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A Vision After The Sermon: Jacob Wrestling With The Junior Boys Soccer Team
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Bombs Over Providence |