THE THICK SICK BLACK BULK OF IT:
Does not kill you, i’m sorry.
Right before the glory, you will want to die.
Talking to yourself like you would a child:
Surely this was THE Desert, THE Dark Night.
And the sun says, Yes..
And the desert answers:
Your prayers are now sand scattered in wind/
The healing is here,it is all around you.
And beyond your decade long view-that exalted
solitude
The Glory rises/
The Kingdom comes.
The promise land you bled for: arrives with angels singing
Your prayers are the sand scattered in wind
The night always ends,
I'm sorry.
The glory wins
The glory wins
The glory wins
Your prayers are the sand scattered in wind.
