“We are going to die with the Frolis!” A young lad and his lover recently redeemed by Mercy spoke from the white horse…
“He was a good man who sang and wrote to me for a week. This is his last letter, a poem, ‘Daughter Of Zion.’ Reverend I was falling for him and would have allowed him my heart. But then he failed miserably. Into the cold dark night he came moody and tense. There it was, between his legs, stood his firm, long and large tentacles as he smiled lustfully at me! I am a child of God! Created in his image! I will not fornicate or devour my body, which is the empale of God. I want him but he has to marry me before I gave him the key to this temple.”
Three Hours later…
“I have come from far Reverend, and by God what have I learn? Does mercy really exist and does God loves us continuously? I’m losing sight of that in this love dilemma of mine. Many things have become meaningless overtime. I was in love with her until she drained her love out of me with her vain attitudes. I love her though, but as a friend and maybe someday…but I wonder about the truth now that I think about it. And it frightens me even more because I’m just a man, I cannot afford to fall in and out of love. I want something’s to be eternal. Is she the one?”
“Go back to your knees your lover is in God’s hand.”
“But I’m young!”
“By God, age has little to do with love. You are young. Go to your knees. Pray. God has your wife.”
And just a thought…I wonder who’s telling the truth?
“O that this blossoming youthful fountain, with life streaming from its core, indeed, time is in your favor, beauty, for now is your greatest arsenal yet against this merciless foe called gravity. May you be wise to realize knowledge also can be your greatest weapon in times to come even when you have been defeated by your foe, gravity.” Ah see where I’m taking you? Will you come? Will you learn? We you equip yourself? Will you read? Will you be future-proof? Tis is disheartening times where blunder remains the center of attention and foolishness and money captures even the faintest of minds. I’m yours. Your guide, even me I’m overlooked by everyone else but for your sake I stand unashamed because I’m your second voice, your guide, your truth, that unwavering voice echoing forevermore, over the noise that is clouding your head. I urge you not to give up and surrender but be strong knowing that your path to equilibrium is nothing but unique, design for you alone by your creator. Amen.
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Ok hello all, this one here is a double doze. Hope you like it. Hills Of Exile, the novel series coming soon. Enjoy.
Come and see today this frail child! We should run up the hills with our babies and let not their screams echo through this crestfallen night of terror. The fortuneteller told his mother he was the source of her misfortune. So every night she told him she drank chlorine and blue dye to fry him as embryo.
Come and see this frail child in the barn. Judgment found him before the rapture. Torn by confusion the neighbor fueled his rage and he got off from the placenta of the whinnying horses. Every night in his jumper suit pajama, checkerboard style, he crossed that dusty road head bent from shame, lantern in his hand and into the barn he went.
Come and see the forgotten soul. Too much finger-pointing, unfair acts, they said he pee to bed every morning so his mother made his bed with the mosquitoes and horses in the barn.
Come and watch the grieving son of the mentally displaced woman. The ten-cent that was stolen was needed to get oil for the lamp. They blamed and beat him for it even though he was at the well, playing with the friendly girl from next door. His giggles and warm laughter for her turned into pain and suffering. He had hoped that one day she would see him not as the abused child but a boy ready for love.
Hey neighbor that dead boy in the barn lived next door. Last summer, he watched her fall in love with Johnny and never came to the well again. When the sassy boy twice his age dragged him down that hill and scratched his cheek his mother told him, “Be a man!”
Come and let’s see the imageries of the tortured boy. The noises made by strange men every night over his mother, the strange shrieks of his mother, he used to be down by the bedside awake and watching their shadow beaming against the wall by the faded lamp. Sometimes they touched him, sometimes they beat her and then they beat him.
The boy is half roasted. His organs still boil from the fire. His teeth and face, skulled—we should run up that hill with our babies and never bring them down here. He was evil they said. At age twelve he masturbated before the three kids who beg for candy on Halloween night.
We should take him into the wheelbarrow and throw his body in that running gutter that only happens in the spring. I am sure we know where his mother is. Lying on the squeaky bed with legs wide open for cash, and that crusty needle on that silver platter, the marks on her hands are not ants bite either. We just don’t know. It was God’s wrath? The lamp fell from the ceiling and set him and the barn on fire.
Watch her lift her steaming mouth and pretend to cry for her son. She’s probably letting off some of that tension of being too high. And that bottle in her hand wasn’t meant for oil either.
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