First mask, I scorn the world.
Second mask, I listen deep to friends and family.
Third mask, I seek out truth.

I know not why you mixed such foolishness with your epistle,
As to talk about a fabled beast that does not exist and never has...
Let none of my poetry be considered prophecy, but like your metaphor
Be understood. Nothing I write is scripture, but it is sanctified nonetheless.
Just understand the meaning, and it will suffice. Nothing more.

Behemoth's feet; tail of cedar;
Fire breathing leviathan.
You must build doors upon the roof.
Your Venus is found across the
Ocean, in America, too.
Naqad III's red paints found in 
Nevada and other caves, too.
Similar subject, and theme, too.
Your peoples live in caverns, wise
Among your years, and use the bones
Of beasts as your decorations.

White Rider, come, and bring your peace
Upon the walshen shores of Greece...
King of Grecia, awesome King;
Named "Sin", that is your name oh King,
And upon your horse will you bring 
Such peace, pleasant sex, computers
Shall make perfect obsequious 
Loves, to the rules of your great day.
The men, with the Glasses, shall feel
They shall eat, taste, touch, smell, hear, see,
And shall have beauties 'pon beauties
In their pornography, for them 
To touch. They shall have all things in
Their domain, adventures, and games
Wars with no suffering, but play
They will, with robotic maids made
To do their chores, so enslaved, no work
Is done, but they like a rat on
A spinning wheel will be pleased. Pleased!
Until the great suffering comes;
Which you, Greek Rider, had thus made.

Blue moon, how you're so beautiful
In the daytime sky, where the sun shines
Blue moon, how you're so beautiful
So precious there divine.

Yes, those in Zion eat the finest grains...
The finest flours, the finest meats
The finest wines and milk, and tea.
You in Europe...
Do you think your prosperity comes from you?
You who eat sumptuous feasts?
You in America, eating the fatlings
And the roasted portions
With some spice and salt---
You have delicacies in great number.
Do you think it comes from you?
Nay... all power to eat comes from Jehovah-Jireh.
Therefore, repent, lest you be fed gall for meat and vinegar for wine.

Buddha and Dab Kab is the god of Asia---
Mammon is her Biblical name.
Fortune, the wheel which crushed Jeremiah
And Job, and John the Baptist and Christ,
It can be hard to explain to an Asian
That the prosperity to come is at Zion
And this life is merely a testing ground.
Whomever Mammon bestows her gifts
Whether they come from the LORD
Or from Beelzebub, it comes regardless
Of righteousness or effort. Rather, it is a wheel
Which with random chance spins,
Unless the LORD made rich and cries out to Mammon
"Make my servant rich, you harlot!"
For Babylon, you sit upon the Scarlet Beast
And your commerce affects the world.
It is not our business, as Christians.
No... not at all.
Ours is merely to win souls.
If we have or have not, we do what we will
And though fed with the finest wheat
The finest wine, the finest oils, the finest milk
It shall come at the cost of a peasant's punery. 
For God bestows all fortune.
Not the Kings over Babylon.
Not Damascus or Pul and Lud.

Abraham's affair with Hagar seethes in your veins,
As you wish to create a morally perfect world
And sterilize it of the Apiru People's mark
You hate Islam, and Judaism, and want Greek Christianity
Saying "Jacob was a sinner," But cannot know...
No... you cannot know... Jacob was used by God.
God hated the elder, but showed favor to the younger.
And you rage at Rebekkah who told her son
To wear the woolen gloves, and slaughter a lamb.
A lamb, Aryan, a lamb, like Christ, to cover our sins.
It is the thing, as Nebuchadnezzar said,
You cannot know, for you only half believe, Aryan.
You only half believe.

To prove the way a prayer's answer
Is given, I, a word, will speak
Today, this full bodied thought.
The snow, meant to come and bluster,
Would make the wagon's wheels be cold
On route to work in morning's day.
Yet, the white blanketed land made
By a fresh snowfall, is found fay
When the snow falls on Winter's eve.
Thus, confounded, on which to want
I prayed anxiously for no snow.
Yet, the snow it came, and melted
Leaving its frost upon the knolls,
But all the paths safe to travel,
I realized how a prayer finds ans.
So, as I write my work, my poems,
I woke to see the snow so fond,
A prayer is answered thus, so pray;
Lay at thy Savior's feet alone,
And see to have your prayers one day.

And then the next day, I see the 
Foot race down the bare, frozen path.
I see myself moved against it
While the runners busily haste.
How it is, they hasten to wrath
Busily upon their highway
Doing their vain activities
While I suck the marrow from the
Forest, enjoying snow once laid
For me, for that too is like prayer.
Though fat and bulbous and ugly,
I understand what they cannot.
They run for beauty, health and wealth.
I carefully another way
Will walk, paced at my Savior's side
Knowing one day all beauty shall be mine.