Burning Bush
I’m a sinner endowed by remorse, thereby I saw the spirit of the inflamed bush. I stripped my feet bare, to face my alimentary and descended nature for it to be scorched by the purity of sand, the glass connatural of beginnings. Before fire it was birthed by the beauty of the crystalline sky, the fragments of Sinai, atop of the bosom of the fainted heart, the summit of the ladder which bears rungs across me. From the tip of the creator's hand, to the mortal roots of nutritive perseverance, rotten from the endless rain of god’s wrath.

Moon, the widow of dawn, pregnant with corruptive idols of false light, dancers at the hight of dusk, in the brim of faith, where the eye of logic paints the path of enlightenment as a walk through the sharp teeth of judgment. Because the shards of the throne must be rebuilt suffused with the blood of repentance.
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