West Of Notre Dame

Demanding combat with each misperception
The eyes claim glancing on the soul of Life,
But nothing’s going to change this World
Unless someone writes a stable poem
About the Grace Of The Holy Spirit
God’s Son dinning with sinners
Sits down at the same table
Sharing a bench with His own traitor
In a similar way,
I share the bench with my trials
I may not be perfect,
But I’ll ask everyone, sinner or saint, to sit down
To share in my meal of Heaven’s bread
With the wine showing the Son’s blood
Next to the most druid of cities,
Hearing the worst nightmares
Sneak into daylight
Leaves the unknown ancestor
As a word-spinning poet
Even though months have gone
In the lead of astray
Washing away by the waves of a mess
Grade school’s best dressed, the first kiss
Memorabilia all stampedes clumsily like horseplay
Watching everything dance and fade
From one’s trembling grasp
Only then can the stories fill up the pages
Until there’s nothing left but tear-drenched paper

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