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the scent of roses

I wanted acceptance
instead I fell into the deep hole
of revelation

I desired love and
found poetry walking with my
cross heavy on my shoulders

I wrote poems and rolled away the stone
Jesus was weeping inside
bleeding at the thought of nails

angry with just cause I joined a group of saints
on a pilgrimage across the desert
of our humanity

we stopped at a well and here I saw myself
for the first time
thirsty and covered with ten thousand years

tears filled my absence

Editing stage: 


Blown away by free verse! This is wicked strong. The only thing wrong with this poem is that it is too short.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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lovely thoughts here
It was a pleasure to read your deviation
from Yoga and kundalini
do speed up the thousand years
yet you need to traverse...
carrying the poetic burden of Neopoet..


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