The day of fire is coming, the thrush, will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket, the beetle will sink like a giant bulldozer, and at the breaking of the morning the houses will turn into oil and will in their tides of fire be a becoming and an ending, a red fan. What then, man in your easy chair, of the anointment of the sick, of the New Jerusalem? You will have to polish up the stars with Bab-o and find a new God as the earth empties out into the gnarled hands of the old redeemer. Submitted by RW
Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 8 May 2024 9:34 AM | Viewed: 7785 times
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