A cross was placed before my face
but I preferred (and said) “be fed”,
to “feed”;
and “better to be led”, than lead
the way.

It was no painful task to strain
my will,
but I preferred to freeze (at ease)
than strive;
“to love? no, fear!” and fear did thrive
with skill.

I could have been with Man. Though lean,
he’s stuffed;
but I preferred to satiate
with bloody “freedom”, on its own,

That cross rushed down on me, a brush
with God,
who can’t prefer the golden molds
(they’re naught),
but humbler icons: better wrought,
if flawed.

Communion’s bonds of love, but spawned
by choice.
I must prefer my death to breath
that sighs
and, isolated, lets none cry

If all the Church would thus besmirch
the Faith
by losing Love, I’d heed the Creed
no more,
and, ripping it in two, deplore
that wraith.


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