Vagrant Heart Muncipal station of wily terrorists, I'm sure they all have something to hide. Benedictine monks drink cider, smoke thick cigars, instead of prayer. They do. It depends on every month, time changes and mends. But when time breaks, It torments the soul. The uncertain grace of God, washed my feet silently, weeping. He pulled the bullet from my arms, and kissed me gently. And as He crept by my sleeping body, I caught the fragrance of Possibility, Something of a hint of love. Something of a hint of beauty. It's in His hidden eyes that you can't see. It's in the chapels endocrine cycle, when they whisper sweet uncertainties to me. Why i pursue the confusion i shall never know, but the broken clay cries out for love. The destiny of the people.
