no pure seed sprouted in righteousness shall elude

the table of any searching for this route of truth

the mouths of all searching for the Bread of Life

while Destiny calls in the fullness of life

head my way into fine tables I shall lay

my hands on your bridled heart

your life in crumbles, shambles of marks

crossing over into the land of the dark

insisting for all to build a moat and an ark

of metaphorical worth in this shroud of art

9.25.13