All the kings on their thrones
Could not atone,
For the blasphemous past
That even they own
It is a terrible day
When we are wasted away
Weeping for souls who hate too much
And stay. I wait for your turn
Turning slowly like a clay pot
Spinning, I mold a larger container
With a smile on my face
Knowing this one you will love.
Breaking in are the arms of the sunlight
Drying the new prodigy.
Christopher Baird 2011 ©
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