​​​​​​​There are roses in the thorny crown, pick them!

Here, now, the furled leaves bid adieu

you could’ve chosen to be ignorant to the demand that such a recognition may’ve placed on your limbs,

And the power that buys our freedom? The power to inflict death in our name.

He is a color I have never thought of.

Above pew, ambo, and altar Escape into pungent relief.