Though
I dip
my pen
in blackest night
as ink blots
my marred gins clear
Tis but the one
That hears
To see
And apprehend sins sear
Sure
Bright swords
Of light
Transform
Yet true masters
Do not ascend
Ere he throws
Aside his earthy wraps
For his Beloved One
Will bend
Strong
Burning reed
Lined sheets
Of white
Marked by red
Stained wounds
Just portraits of
His Story
Upon a Soul
Attuned
D.S. Lear
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