If you paint for me even one thing which is true, perhaps I’ll be tempted to consider two. I tell tales poetically, someone else needs to set them to music.
My letter to those who struggle with the Bloody Mess of Penal Substitution and Hell on a Cross
She cries, she knows that a strong dislike bounces the sound-rings beside her.
She laughs, through sniffles, to nostalgia how it…
Nermal existence to go.
The black wagon’s waiting, it knows your weight.
Its wheels are oiled with thoughts on your fate.
You briskly move…