What have you Little scroll?
The words of truth or the haughty lie.
Spiders creeping thy errant cry.
To wax with the semblance of a stone.
To silence the humble perchance to die alone.
Thus reality sweet reality to don a mask a fate.
But that man in sooth participate.
To aid the folly of the succession.
And yea preacheth the bard the lucrative profession.
That a bit of blessing cast the die.
And in the Good the lurid cry.
To feeble knees to withstand the taunt.
As the foolish wane in ignorance to teach such wisdom paramount.
That the blind eyes to be healed by the communal cup.
As the hungry on charity sup.
To will yea to will the impossible dream.
Then add the sugar to the cream.
And drink the wine and sing the song to the passions zest.
To throw out the old to make room for the best.
That how the martyr surges through the gates of heaven.
And hell”s fury is no match for God’s simple leaven.
That in man’s doctrine there is blindness and scorn.
But in any truth man perchance would be born.
That ignorance is a bellowing din.
As to err with learning afterwards one may see the light with in.
Poetry
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