Waiting to inhale,
Forced to the sight
but intrigued by the God's shield.
Zealous and somewhat,
Unbelieving and somewhat
stunned by the cunning guns
who follow swiftly running.
My nerves are smoking,
Dipped into relief from every
smiling tome,
I hope faith is in the right place,
Right next to the grace
where it was bestowed to me.
My sword changed form,
from a brook
to a raging storm,
my mind bends as my words swarm,
and the ideas keep coming.
The green demon laughs and taunts,
For a moment distracted,
Then back atop the stallion
with the stag horn bellowing,
Black sheep praxis.
They still question and beckon,
I still fight forward,
Pure support from forward,
Raging with my index,
No sleep 'til sunrise
and the choir's kiss
and then I wake up fighting.
