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Cries from the Angry Mix Blood

excerpts from a short poetry book I wrote

I do not know where God is sometimes.

Olympus above sends no lightening good or bad to any of my cries.

What is this heaven that people speak of? A paradise of bliss sent to bandage old warrior wounds.

Souls and energy pressed into the wine press to pour out old bitter poison.


Confessional organs swell holding back angry tsunami flood of discontent.

What am I supposed to do against the angry hails?

Disgusting talks declaring release.

I have no key to let loose the Dam.

I wish to return to my green plains and leave this roman stadium. I am not a gladiator.

I want to drop my cotton bags and not worry of artificial colors.

I do not know where God is sometimes.

Where are you?

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