“A ruin! A ruin! I will make it a ruin!” – Ezekiel 21:27 2 1 27
What will be the next stone in the democratic republic of hate of the great divide and conquer. To separate the spirit of souls. Ezekiel holds pen in a divine claw of suspended virtual hypocrisy of claims, illuminated by disruption. Sanctified by clean clops of mud. Sanitized with droplets of blood bloated, blocked, and eroded with fear. The smears of hand prints paint reflections of twins. Twins that float on a boat of blues with no hope. But the dope twice inhaled has stoned the pope who cloaks all that listen for the Bear. Unaware, unawake, undead! Fed, red, and lead to slaughter. Please sir. May I have another. Time darns not. Prayers ring empty. Missions turn away. Brothers seek death. Shame is openly shared. Insanity repeated and downloaded. Firewalls, codes, back tracked and left open. Loop holes buy one get more loop holes for an infinity of aces and eights. The slate salty and wiped. Just for you my pretty one. A rare trap. A rap trap of rat tramps. Rat a tat trap. Are you a Sap. Hold the applause! Waiting on the End of sin Mr. Twin. Come on in and lend.