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The ever-poking knives are back
Nobody ever won,
a seat at the highest table,
while won-dering.
And, to be constantly;
marred by a demagogic dream'r,
is a storm,
of reveries thundering.
A costly sermon
minus refunding Him;
makes an irate, antagonistic -
hurricane of a redeemer.

Whilst your back
is turned, knives will poke;
fun at you.
When your knack
is spurned, the wicked spoke;
not of truth.
While your shack
is burned, evil's smoke;
chokes anew...

No matter your serial
number.
The seas, rivers, and, waves;
crash asunder.
Filling gardens,
cities, and, graves.
Technological roads -
forbidden knowledge;
did pave.
Yet, generations are left here,
to wonder,
their brains forever to wander,
mental marathons amble, and, lumber,
on how; many, souls will be saved.

But, that question
is already answered.
When the meek become mighty.
And, the downtrodden;
are lifted up by the righteous.
By good conscience,
and, moral upstanders.
Whom delight
in the defeating of cancers.
The antidote will make;
a martyred saint;
of the;
vicious, viridian virus.

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