Opal Steeples B. K. Neifert Copyright © 2022 B. K. Neifert All rights reserved. DEDICATION This work is dedicated to Christian. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Many acknowledgments are given to the numerous poets who've written on the Character I've come to moniker as Death. Such notable poets as Billy Joe, John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, T. S. Eliot, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, and most notable of all, Hosea and Solomon. Also, acknowledgments are given to Jung and Freud, whose theories--though likely incompatible on a pedantic level---as a whole, provide endless synthesis for my poetry. And to my Schizoaffective Disorder, which finds this elusive character everywhere, and most notably in my dreams. And finally to Zion, a Beautiful Woman, a Beautiful City. It seems like the core of this book is a contrast between Death and Heaven. Aphorism 1: When a truly beautiful maid arrives at the party, the mirth grows still. Aphorism 2: A lie is more visceral than truth, because it is simpler to comprehend. Aphorism 3: The ugliest thing about our modern age... every guttural reaction to beauty is confused with lust. Aphorism 4: People who deny Jesus will be judged by Moses’ standard. Aphorism 5: I see nothing more fair, than that God redeem us from Moses’ “Laws which were not good.” Aphorism 6: Be judged by Moses’ law, if you think Jesus died for nothing. Aphorism 7: I have nothing more to write. Sure, I can still write. But, I have nothing more to write. Aphorism 8: Conclude nothing from a liar; their lies only multiply conclusions because it nullifies Vacuous Truth. Aphorism 9: Good poetry never claims to be true, so it contains Vacuous Truth and sound conclusions may be drawn from it. Aphorism 10: Christ is our bread. Feed and be nourished, so you are able to do what's good. 1. The Two Trees Meet “I love you,” Said the Olive Tree To the Fig Tree. The Olive pined And said, “O, our Brother “Was nailed to me!” The Fig replied, “Oh, my darling, “My beauteous friend, “God cursed me, “When leaving the city “I was dead.” The Olive spoke, “My fruit is savory, “And yours are sweet; “Embrace me, “With our bark spliced, “Let us bring forth “Something new!” The Fig Spake, “Yes, our curséd fruit “Could bear something “New; yet, it is “Unlawful!” The Olive lamented, “Yes! For you are “A Fig tree, cursed, “And I an Olive, “For we are from “Two different bloodlines!” The Fig Entwined with The Olive; they created A fruit of life! 2.Ferguson's Giant Soul Ferguson, Mac Moghcun, There was Queen Maev! Who you rose upon your Armies, Red King, and Spent your arms Destroying her, who Fought valiantly. With your bag of dreams, You took my poesy, Raped my beloved, Love-talker. Curséd Fig, you spin Having heaved your Sighs for one hour; in dreams Maev and Ferguson Are at war Shaking the worlds; I, I await you here; while the Titans clash and Rend the times. We shall cling: Brush off your Spider's webs! I wish to seed you In the soil, anew! 3. Zion's Soil Beloved, I have seen Captivity! I have worn chains. I have sinned. The King's hair is raven- Black. he is comely and beautiful, Dark eyed, Yet your desire is for me. he, the beauty of an Archangel, he, at war with Maev--- The heavens shake As angels war with giants. The wiseman questions: My chains are those Which shackle the Earth. You have sighed underneath Him, in the weaving Of dreams. My seed is good. It awaits fertile soil. Unbound the cursed And unlock my chains With your skin. 4. Confession Queen Maev, if I were Ferguson With my bag of dreams I would throw myself into The sea;---and like Prometheus Said to the Southern King, I should drown myself. Yet, with my Giant Soul Enlarged, when Solomon Said to Death, that he Would give him a device, That night I prayed On the way to my corridors. “Let me not have “Taken the cup of wrath, “But let me prophesy “him, and like Jacob “Steal the father's blessing!” So I dreamt. 5. Child, Touch Another World The child's heart within all Feels so much larger than it actually is. It feels like all laws bend to its will, That it is of a greater importance Than the Great Pyramids, Than the Mythic Stonehenge, Than the Swirling Milky Way, Than the Eiffel Tower, Than Democracy, Than Free Speech, Than Patriotism, Than History. The child within all feels like the creator of all worlds. It feels so important, Like a king, Like it were great at every which thing. A great skier, A great chess player, A great teacher, A great writer, A great builder, A great artist, A great singer, A great champion and hero. The child in all believes itself to be great... It feels entitled to all good treatment. It feels as if the world revolves around them. I don't know how we ever grow up... I look at people, in their self importance, And I find each one a world swirls around their minds, I can tap into it by listening to their words. I can feel their feelings, know their thoughts By the words they speak, and the mien they imbue. I can know them, and so can you. Yet, not many care to know them. Not many care to look at the dramatic obelisk of Other As a friend once wrote in a poem about a man named David. That there are obstacles hindering us, People, places and things. I look at myself, and my wisest thoughts Came from other minds much wiser than mine. It came from listening, from tasting, From touching, from smelling, Through the descriptive tense Of another's words. Not my taste, not my touch, Not my smell, but my ear. The greatest pieces of wisdom Came from the greatest adversaries. For, I could poke holes right through them When I became undaunted by their words. When it became interesting. In practical matters I still feel there are foolish men--- Yet, they find a more practical lifestyle than I do. And I feel their swirling world as they speak--- It is offensive. It soon becomes my world A swirling kaleidoscope of thoughts and inventions. I've learned to embrace it, for such is their freedom And such is mine. Yet, my brother told me today, "Do not seek to persuade me." Can democracy flourish without persuasion? My inner child likes to reach out and touch other worlds But it often gets burnt. Thus, it still reaches, It still touches, it pries into the deepest held beliefs. Politely, I can have a conversation with a woman On Dharma, and she enjoy it. Yet, her husband---for he ought to be by now--- Scolds her, offends her, doesn't listen. "Buddhism is more optimistic." I agree, it's not the torments of Caste systems. But, really, there must be something better after this life, Than having to live it all over again. What cruel deity swirls us in this cosmos for eternity? Hell is a comfort to me, for there is no wisdom there. No activity. No planning. Meaning, no thought. For, with thought There is wisdom. Hell seems less cruel Than tormenting someone on Earth Over and over again, With a reincarnation of past lives Rejuvenating and swirling like the Milky Way. That is immoral. And at last, it is simply to die? I cannot believe death is the sum of life's choices. I believe there must be more. I'd lose hope, if all I had to look for Was another life like this. Yet, her thoughts are interesting, And he---very sure of himself--- Tells me I upset her. Something tells me she was telling the truth That it was not me. Rather, I live to listen... Do not be offended if I cannot agree, But that is core to our freedom Even to have heated arguments. If I could not persuade, If I could not gain access to the worlds which swirl around me, I would be despaired, and lonely. I would be, as the Woke Mob wishes me to be, A solipsist, constantly reassuring himself with his own thoughts. And there I would be, no one to challenge me Suffering in the hell I created for myself By telling someone I thought was wrong to, "Shut up." Offense is necessary in a free society. For, in a free society, we are free to share our worlds With one another, and burdened though we be, The child within us touches the scalding, red-hot Iron of another's world---if we cannot sway them to ours Or be swayed to theirs, then there is no freedom. I know it burns. But, there is no better joy any other way. 6. The Scent of a Rose The scent of roses, Unlike all other flowers, Is a form bred from Horticultured, white florets Which smell like honeysuckle. 7. The Sarsoodledom The Satrap of the Sardoodledom Sat, calling all art Kitsch. Save, it was writhing with fear, or sex Or it idealized crime and perverts. He, wisely? was called Athena, And ruled his Sardoodledom With an iron fist. Nothing good could be made, Save what was a Sardoodle In his Sardoodledom. 8. Evidence A Biblical Timeline of Evidence Corroborating Scripture: Unknown – Flood myths appear on every continent and in every ancient civilization, including the Americas, which would be impossible, had not the Flood actually happened. 1950bc - The Lipit-Ishtar, which has a law on it, number 27, that Abraham followed with Hagar, that God told him to ignore. Abraham corresponds to this in the Genealogical record. 1750bc - We see the influence of Abraham on the laws of Mesopotamia, in the Hammurabi's Code, where some of the Hebrew laws in the Torah are first found. Which is likely, also, the reason Sumerian Legends contain Biblical material, was an original source penned by Abraham. 1420bc - The Temple of Soleb has the name of Yahweh inscribed in Egyptian Hieroglyphs, and shows Bound Hebrew Slaves on the Pillars, making mention of the fact that the Israelites were wanderers in the land of Egypt before they were enslaved. 1330bc - The Cult of Aten begins, which corresponds with Moses in the Genealogies. The Cult of Aten was an unexpected conversion to Monotheism by the Pharaoh of Egypt, which likely occurred as a result of the miracles performed by Moses. Also, Moses' genealogical record lines up right with it. 18th Egyptian Dynasty – Egyptian Chariot spokes are found off the coast of Nuweiba beach, and many more like pieces remain under the Red Sea. 1250bc - Joshua's Altar. In Joshua's Altar there are Kosher animal ashes, along with the lead tablet described by the book of Joshua, and it is situated at the rear face of mount Ebal. It is even in the pattern of a Jewish Altar, with ramps instead of steps. Also found at the same dig site are mentions of King Hezekiah (Circa 790bc) and Jeremiah (Circa 600bc). 1050bc - A fragmented clay artefact is found in Khirbet Qeiyafa, containing Hebrew Mnemonic verses and the Tetragrammaton, of interpretive transcriptions of the law. On the pot, it talks about being charitable to slaves, and judging them mercifully, and a rebuke against idolatry. 840bc - Tel Dan Stele records the death of King Jehoram, and reveals that he is from the HouseDavid---a Portmanteau of the Dynasty's Heraldry. 597bc - The Nebuchadnezzar Chronicles are a direct reference to the Jewish Captivity, of Babylon sacking Jerusalem. Ezekiel had already been taken captive, along with Israel, therefore, the captivity had already begun. Ezekiel records the Sack of Jerusalem and how bad it will be. As well as Jeremiah the Prophet. 537bc - Edict of Cyrus, which records the restoration of the Jews back to Israel. 100bc – The Great Isaiah scroll was transcribed, and still has the prophecy of Isaiah 53, detailing how a man's soul must be offered as a sin offering. Predating Christ by at least 130 years. 31ad – Christ sweats blood, and dies of a heart attack. The Gospel record shows Christ sweating blood, a condition called hematohidrosis, which happens because of severe stress, and also a heart attack, when His side was punctured with the spear, water flowed from the wound. Which is from a pustule sack developed around the heart during Pre-Cardiac Arrest. 31ad – Under the Emperor Guangwu, of the Latter Han Dynasty, there is record of the Darkening of the Sun which happened for three hours during the Crucifixion. In the records, twice it is declared, “A man has died for the sins of all the people. Man from heaven died.” 9. The Playlist I start this journey, A two year old boy. I learn my dad's stereo system Having watched him do it before. Some day love will find me, As the opening synths sends me on My new life's road. Then, driving through the woods And over the river, To grandmother's house I go. About to slip down, I'm so excited to swim. Life is about fun, and I'm too tired for work; Play is everything at this time in my life. We listen to the oldies radio, the whole car ride, Sitting in another traffic jam. Seventeen, sweet emotion fills me, Pleasure filled fantasies of sex To Two Unlimited and Rock and Roll... The beginning of my career as a writer, With pornographic prose and an honest to truth love story. I find my woman with a face like a gent. Her daddy says I took it a little too far. My car, I ramble about for years, First with my androgynous mate, And then with my friends; Going here, there, the summer of fun And violence. I try to make my living, But, I'm a rambling man. Rambling on and on, talking mostly nonsense. My car is my pride and joy... You don't know what I got; I rev my Malibu beside the car Of infernos---there my sister almost died. My stereo bumps, overshadowed by woofers In the hopped up Coupe. Barrel Rolls, broken hips and brain tissue. Recovering, Johnny comes to me And makes a deal--- He's in a bind, and I take the dare. Thus, he sings of the Devil's Kitchen And I sing of the Snowy Abode. He sings of a Welsh Prince, And I sing of our LORD and King; My mountain is taller. I then meditate on the sweetest wisdom... To be a man, simple and humble. To search for love, and not be lonely in this world. It was always my song, my very first song, But straying from it all these years, I realize the fantasy was not enough. Then the trial of every Christian comes; The fornication with the worldly device. My captivity, my mission, They scream what I spoke to her in the closet On the rooftops. They know my every secret thought, They turn my life into a spectacle. It happens. Everybody's been there;--- Information's inebriation. Then the music dies. Censorship grows... My movie begins... This will be the day that I die--- I wrote the book of love, I have faith in God above And what the Bible tells me,---so, I believe my music can save the soul. Now I go, walking down the street. I get funny looks from everyone I meet. For my youthful offense I am stained with distrust, and dirty looks. Everywhere I go, a look of shame appears On the faces of all around me... All know my sin, All know my shame... I look for work in the city, But can find none. I ride the Pride of the Susquehanna. People on the river are happy to give me their time, To listen. I wander here, there, looking for an answer To my disgrace and poverty. I have no money, Wandering the streets, shamefully. In my music, I drift away... Writing my odes of blaspheming kings, Doppelgangers, witches, Dragons and satyrs, True Love and advanced civilizations. I get lost in my creativity... I get lost in the rhythms of my Playlist, waiting for when I fall in love. Then I see her face. I started thinking love was simply a story I wrote... A beautiful thing I kept on my keys. A fairytale like my kings and queens. But, I saw her face once more, And there was no trace of doubt. My first I gave all, and got nothing. Now, the face of sunshine makes me believe in love again. I, the loser of losers, Fell in love with the Homecoming Queen; And she loved me. I believed in my dreams. She said to me, "Do you, you, feel like I do?" And for life's longest season, We made time for loves. Life returned to the simplicity of childhood. The pure, exalted joy of youth prevailed; Life was good again... It was like sitting at the Kokomo, Listening to a steel drum band. She and I reclined, filled and old as the songs I listened to as a child. At the end of life, I blessed Jesus, and said, "This life was just alright with me." And I drifted off to sleep one day, And woke up someplace else; Someplace better. 10. The Blue Moth I walk, Succor the green,--- The Mauve, centimeter wide, Opal butterfly Flutters with The lethargy Of a newly created thing. It lands, so delicately Upon the arch of my peach Foot, between the sandal strap And my cuffed, mud-stained Jeans. 11. The Hard Stuff The dragonflies are numerous, The biting flies are few. Upon the paths of Pinchot I consider the words of you. “Slavery is a grievous sin “Which thy God has sanctioned,” True. But the Law of Moses, my friend, By Jesus's been made moot. How know'th you, If by the Heathen made a slave, God may save the Unbeliever, And give them life in Zion all days? The War for Canaan was furious, Blood spilt, from man to child, Yet could it be they were corrupted Rapist, murderer, pedophiles? Thus, ought God not have slain them And use the Holy Book, To judge this world's Chaos Whom Jesus, they all forsook? 12. The Geese with their young goslings Wade into the milk lake, Beige;--- With their webbed feet twaddling The little geese with their down Follow in roes, behind their mother goose. Black, slender necks, like a Brachiosaur, Arch, with white patches and yellow eyes. Grey backs, variegated, and black beaks. Peace flows with the Zephyrs Warm light, a perfect comfort. Children play their lawn tennis Cooperating to score high volleys. Birds sing, “Peace!” War and violence bark madly Somewhere---far away is Their mischief. Yet, hear, is peace. 13. Jacob I take my most prized Possession. I give it to Jacob. For exchange, I wished to exchange It for a lie. I come to collect the lie, Yet, for my most prized possession I receive not the lie, For Death has seized upon it. Therefore, I have not a lie; And for that I am grateful. For, I forgave Jacob for His theft, yet had unyielding Mercy. For that I have been forgiven. 14. Twenty-six Quintilian Souls My hope is for my ministry to save Twenty-Six Quintilian souls. One soul for each grain of sand Off Israel's coastline. 15. Job's Journey Job was a good man who hadn't sinned But his friends laid accusations on him. He suffered for heaven's purple mists, And golden roads; its thick, opal towers Of red and green, made with Gold like Jasper Stones, stretched from Earth to the white moon above. Its pearl gates like a mollusk shell Sheened with opalescent, cornflower blues Gradient with whites and silver glean. The City of Zion, twelve-thousand furlongs high, Rise a city on a hill, made with Ruby- Emerald towers, of a worldcity's Width and breadth and height, of thick, miles square base, The towers rise like New York's or Dubai's;--- Looking up at those towers like gazing Upon leaning mountains, tilted toward thou. There Job sat in pastures with boiled hands And pustule growths---from Shingles, lay he bare. His friends upon the green, green grass sat, raw, Telling him things which were never fair. "For youthful sin, he certainly did "For this he must pay the awful price." The blue sky above, and the wooden Cottages, somewhere dappled upon the Landscape, with the livestock white and black, There they lowed, and lorned and men labored While Job sat accused for sin he'd not commit. The five men sat in a circle, saying, "For complaint and sin and bitterness "You know Joseph never laid a mournful Hymn, "For it is sin which is why you suffer," Yet Job knew he suffered for his Bride Wisdom. Beelzebub, a red satyr, with cloven Hooves, and sculptured chest, haunches a furry Ram's, Sat with black and needly, and disfigured Things, with sandstone caverns lit with licking flame. They worked their webs of lies so raw, with blood Drenched from the cavern floors, to the maimed Figures shackled upon the beige walls of hell. There men were crucified, yet not like Christ For they shall never suffer death again! Job thought mightily on these things, how wrong It was for he to suffer for naught he'd done. Yet, the Law's precept came to mind so sweet, "Unrighteous men find Wisdom's demands "To be like that of a contentious bride.--- "Yet listen to her, and make loves to her "And though she rebuke you, at the end is life." 16. The Source I I write, finding on my own The Wisdom of Solomon. I read Sirach and The Wisdom of Solomon And it is like I myself had written it. That is why I know the Apocrypha is not scripture; But that is also how I know my writing is not demonic. It is inspired by wisdom and truth. Should Dante, or Milton, or Austen Or Tolstoy, or Chesterton, or Lewis Be demonically inspired, Then so also my work, for I Magnify God's law. I come to the philosophy of Existentialism Of Epicureanism, of Platonism... I have help attaining to it. But, the arguments of C. S. Lewis I have found, and strengthened. Yes, there is a little voice in my conscience, The same one that lets me know what is right or wrong; It wasn't too long ago, that everyone knew about it. That is gone in so many--- The voice told me to say that. It is not audible, a hallucination, But like a thought, giving me words I sometimes had never known; Other times, like Malapropisms, which I search for the correct one. I claim that none of my writing is scripture. None of it is true, for I am a poet And work within Vacuous Truths. I speak in similitudes. I heard John MacArthur describe Demonically inspired books. My hairs stood up, My heart grew dim. It is not the peace I know. My voice is not a demonic apparition. It is merely the gift of providential utterance; It has told me of things to come; It has worked within the fabric of my fingers true words. If demonically inspired, If propaganda, Would I attest to the Divine Christ? Would I not try to dissuade my reader From believing in an Omnipotent Triune God, Who is the Father, Son and Holy Spirit? Would I say salvation can only come through belief In this Three Personhood of Deity? Would I speak of rest, Or scathe sin in this world? I do not know why my writing does not get published. But, it is certainly not by Demonic forces that I have written it. If The Secret can be published, And the myriads of books Dr. MacArthur talked about, Things too disturbing to retell... Would I be disturbed by it If I myself had written the like? No. Any ghost or supernatural occult thing I would hail And be mystified by. Rather, my words are built to heal and turn the world to repentance. Something much needed in our age of godlessness. Will I triumph? No thing I fear more than losing the relationship I have with Christ. I am willing to be poor and a vagabond if it means retaining my faith. But, should I be unable to retain faith as a poor man, Then let me be rich. If unable as either, Then let me be fed, and clothed, and sheltered And no abomination enter into my soul Nor root of bitterness, nor bark of poison into this soul. II There is an anxiety in me... Having not spoken all. Hail Britannica came by way of a dream--- How I know not. Whether by a worm, or drunken chalice of blood Or by magic I do not know. What I do know, is that I've asked God Many times for an Epic Poem. It is a point of anxiety in me That I do not know how I dreamt it. One night, I dreamt of a blue light coming from my bookshelf; It was my bumpster, but it frightened me. Before I dreamt the story, I remember talking with my friend about it. I remember asking him what my next work would be. Whether these things are true, I do not know. My same friend, I had talked to about the drawer My dad replaced, and this before it had ever broken. I thought he was insane, talking about a broken drawer Which had never broken. Yet, about a year later The drawer broke, and my dad replaced it. I remember talking with him, Whom I hadn't spoken to for weeks. I also remember seeing myself At a bookstore, touching a woman I had made into Elora Wearing the hat I would wear, and the Moccasins I would wear. What comforts me, is in the words of Solomon There is a large family who summoned death. And in Hosea, Death is more prosperous Than his brethren. In my dreams, he saw the King's inner chambers, He made my Epic Poem into a novel--- He even draws me forth to hide his lies. If you must know, he is the inspiration For my Doppelganger. He is the inspiration For my Thirteen Kings... And I have to dream of this nightmare every night. Excuse me for writing about it, For perhaps He is Abaddon himself. All I know is that I clearly remember My friend talking to me about a drawer Being replaced, and lo, the drawer hadn't been replaced. I remember of talking about this year's drought Last year, a year plenteous with rain And there could not be a drought at all. It could just be that I am dreaming these things As the other night I had dream paralysis And could hear a woman's voice taunting me. But, I prayed a weak prayer. I do not think my source is demonic As if it were, I would hide these things from you. I feel like, rather, it is an oppressive force Attacking me, like an army outside of a besieged city, And I must use this intelligence to defeat the enemy. I do not believe I am a god. I do not believe I am perfect. Rather, what I believe is simple... Jesus Christ is the LORD. I ought to follow His ways; And I ought to persuade you to follow Him, too. As any hope for a good life now Requires your belief as well as mine. For, if there is oppression because of sin, My words cannot achieve me the life I desire. And as is told to Israel, "Take with you words." The reason I do not believe I'm demon possessed And that my stories come from Satan Is that I believe they came from God. Not as a means to save the world But simply as a trade comes to any man Who is an expert at the craft. Through providential guidance. And perhaps I have an interesting story to tell. 17. Violet Sky I could be white I could be light I could be righteous and free; Though the tyrants, Who are so violent Wish violet, the welkin to ring. 18. Logos Where have you gone? Babble is brought to dust; The nations are cast abroad. Where are our common stories? Where is Jack and Jill And Peter Pumpkin Eater? Where is Robin Hood The Grinch, Paul Bunyan And Persuasion? With what does man share or gain Knowledge? By knowledge, The root of wisdom is cast abroad. The flowers and birds And woodland creatures Are known by few... The Ecology is detailed to gross Minutia, while the Eggplant a berry And the Berry is naught. We riot over controversy And have outlawed truth. Men speak their own burdens And by their own burdens None do listen... A white background And a man in the foreground Strives to find eternal truths... Yet none are to be found. Music is terse chords, Guttural phrases, The monotone sung over A simple, three note melody. Poetry is vapid, Novels are simple, Yet math is invented; Not discovered. As a wise scholar spake'th, Babble's tower is fallen And collapsed to ruinous dust. No man or woman receives justice; And for equity's sake all are treated unequal. The child is snatched from the parent's home And castrated, fed hormones like a slaughtering animal, And fundamentally altered and neutered Before she knows how to count. The Logos is destroyed; None can comprehend or interpret the wise and ancient and dark truths. All is impossible, and all sayings spoken Are the lie we ourselves create. We disperse it abroad, We fallow the rows of the next generation To watch the sandstorms tower miles high And consume the cities... For, no science can be agreed upon, The solve to the world's problems are doubted Simple things we see, and then say there is no proof. Yet, the problem is there is too much proof, And we wish to be the horse drawing the carriage Blinded, and seeing only what is in front. Noone knows truth. Not one. I write my poetry in this century--- Yet, I am all alone. 19. The Pearl Sterling Ye sodomous witches Writhe---hate ye love For hate the truth ye do. Ye summoned death With combined might; Ephemeral powers sprung forth. "We hate the Christian "Because he set bad example for all..." When or withal, when I was but a lad Did you not revel on our revelry And succor every kiss? Then, when he had change of heart Then, only then, did you pounce? For you loved his sumptuous face And desired his perfect form... Then, he laid with virgins And hurled the cruel abuses. Yet, 'twas when he grew kind; Only then did you hate him And claim he set bad example. Then, at last, you queens and kings, You portioned your might to destroy. You bargained, and bartered, And sought to warp the world to your wicked Worldview. Have the world. Yet, you wish to wreck me And cause me a shameful death. Doth thou yet hear the voices? Doth the Satanic screams fill your domiciles? At last, they shall And I will have revenge by the LORD's mighty arm. "From where?" I may die... But, at least I will be at eternal rest. You... you shall live in the hell you summoned forth. "Death!" you cried, "Come forth," And he did, to dance on your graves. 20. Amonotheum Zion, with your perfect face, Ample breast, and scarlet hair: Tall, yet perfect enough for a kiss, My changeling has held you In his dream, with your pink Areola;---and a degenerate Man wanted to share in your Flower, but the changeling Refused;---for cruelty, like a child's With a little toy duck with wheels. In a vision, Yehonason said To the changeling, “You will only have “Her once, in a dream.” Then, there is the third Cretan: I know not the name. But, in Jotenheim, he said Of me, “Thou art a god!” I don't know what was meant. Green was the firmament, Large were the waves, Hard were the lessons won. I've seen everything, on earth, Under the earth, in the vault above... In forgotten planes, in hidden nooks, I've seen all, knowing only thee. A rapturous peace, the splendor Of thy walls, the city where We shall plant, water, and make loves; Jesus' teachings, Paul's preaching, The prophets' speaking, I know them as the signpost Which points to thee.
Opal Steeples Final Cut
Published
B. K. Neifert 