​Epitome of pretense

Embodiment of mirage

Vessels of fallacy

Neophytes at Antioch


We strive inadvertently

Oblivious of our chief goal;

Our words are but scripts

Written by fellow humans

We perform best in the chapel

The sanctuary, amidst pews


Then our Oscar, elevation

One given from the Spiritual Father

We speak tongues, we create

In reckless arbitrariness

Without the order of Trinity’s third

We speak tongues no one has

The gift to convert to the lay mans Lingua.


St. Peter hides his face

Our performance faces to his celestial body

We mock with serious countenance

We all have humor, we are heaven’s guffaw

Our children’s progenies are what we are

As the universe spits on its conventions

We are the last to lie against Trinity’s third

With our offspring’s destroying Antioch with unscripted words.

We all say “Heaven is the goal”

But with no spirit of sportsmanship…

Let’s till till time takes its turn

Then we will wonder what we would speak while we burn


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