Fog

Sonnet of the saint of saints
Crumbles me. My conscience in defeat
Raises a while flag. How much suffering
Should one go through whipped from the outside.
And still you wonder, the thorn crown
What if it was on the inside.
Some people too carry their own crosses.
Life is not a wine cellar, only a fire cracker.
Like Jesus’s last drop of blood
There is purification in death.
You look at Veronica and you wonder
Did she love Jesus, perhaps so did
Mary Magdalene. Death sweeps
Across like a falcon sweeping to
Catch a hare, all the while the falconer
Looks on, stone cold, with no pity.
The God harvester takes the soul away.
The god particle is what you gave you mass.
The holy ghost is what gave you spirit.
We are just a harvest at the end.
The sickle looms bright like the sun.
You hang your body on a plank in the roof.
You quake a little and then let go.
There will be no masses for you
The sirocco blows through the lifeless terrain
Soul hitchhikes to be blown away
To an oblivion, The falcon returns
To the falconer, to repose.

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