To the reliance of reflection I see.
Thus, what of the transformation into an iron cross of discovery?
Un-anchored spirits from forbidden doorways.
Youthful were the vestiges I held to the light.
Now they are only recollections of disappointed blasphemy.
How true these reflections in me?
How honest can the hues be?
Could not account for the strolls around…
the Good News Bible.
Revelations dripped prosperity.
However grappling were the allegations on the pages in between.
The blotted ink left simple transference of someone else’s insecurity.
What honest there had been left to reflect upon?