I’m told you learned the vocation of carpentry, not far from a deceased and a parted sea. Or were you a stone mason who played with slate and made wages, and ended days with his hands all chaffed and degraded?
I admit I find it hard to feel you ‘re a part of me, so if I’m on the road to Perdition, could you please put in a word to pardon me? I apologize. But by the time I was old enough to really open up these eyes and get mortified, I saw countless opines on your existence and your demise, so vastly distanced and polarizing, pulverizing my soul and mind into pulpy indifference.
But you were the perfect symbol hovering over the heads, of heathens with a distinct bleat so sheepishly led. To the banks of the only paradise, salivating for salvation, where average lives get cleaned before they start tasting. The pure liquid to cure the sickness, to make kinetic the shiftless, by getting drenched in enrichment. Holds are then suspended of the false messiahs and unrepentant, who can never cross the fire, or ever reside in the fertile finish. Those covered in pretentious garb, souls sour hard like the crops of inattentive farmers. With you standing before them, conversing with an owl and a former Mormon, warming the masses more than the sun’s actions, adorned in the pure light of the everlasting. I never subscribed to if they’re right, but if someone’s asking, about a template for life, my advice is a sacrilegiously emphatic vice…Jesus Christ!