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We were about to move  again And he said we needed to paint the garage He didn’t explain why  but he never does  
But I don't know much about God I know want to sit with him and his others But my existence is sin And I'll never reach what I want   Its fruitless
Peacock feathers, royal blue, Turquoise, lapis, every hue, Only gemstones and most true,  For him naught but best will do. He deserves a golden shrine, From his eyes the stars do shine,
Coils of cold yellow green rope Lying heavy, hold her still Half-sleeping eyes lacking hope Betray her total loss of will. Apathy upon her lies,  Slowing movement, pressing down,
He stays awake, eyes staring, At every wanted prize, And all the things, deserving, He knows he's been denied. Green-silver shards of hatred Poison his every thought, And threads of something rage-red
Greed's daughter always asks for more, She fills her mouth with savor, Sweet and salty tastes galore, In each and every flavor.  Her heart is set in love of food, To exclusion of all else,
All she wants are diamonds, And the glitter of soft gold, With jewels the size of almonds, And sparkling coins to hold. Her goal is always growing, Complete excess her aim,
'Gainst pillow lounges lazily, Naked contrast with his bed, Calls soft and lackadaisically,  Drawing you as though you're led.  His image makes desire spark,  In flashes of maroon,
She is a soft spoken quick wit, With fear behind her gaze, And if you dare provoke it,  You should beware its scarlet haze. Her tongue is sharp like razor blades, Strikes quicker than an asp,
The stained glass sounds like a wind chime as it fallsThat wind, like the choir, brings God back from the dead.Maybe there is still a pew with a wrinkled hymnbook
He will never turn away from me no matter how many times I push him away or doubt His love Or question him angrily about why I feel this way and why terrible things happen I cannot truly live without His love
  The only time I believed in you,
Look around. What do you see? The world's coming apart piece by piece. Every direction seems like a dead end. Go to your house: Everyone is fighting. Go to your work: Everyone's a backstabber.
I wonder if Piotyr knows How beautiful is his watercolor sky. I wonder if it ever makes him Just sit and sit and sit and cry To know all that happens beneath his sky. And I wonder if he ever asks himself:
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