Gilt

When it reigns, it poors, says the old cliche as old as old winds ever blue,
Wear it seams every mourning I watch, helpless, yet another storm bruise;
When it reigns, it poors, hiding the gilt staining there hearts in full view,
We all hurdle through, some say pleas, some trip, some float by without a clew.
“Friends” don’t help- they cant as they cell me “knew” words thinking I do knot no,
As with free quince see bitterness’ throne, words fillet heart until its’ groan
Proud wen they prey profit tick seize sum site out of heir weight new bourne
How can my faith prophet? They prey for my piece calm err words too worn
Taut, attuned, here viol, retch, kneed missals lessen, caws my soul to feal a frayed,
I’d rather live without fere, then halve the hole, and look heaven-Word forrayed.

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