TITLE: Febuary 13, 2015
By Donald Standeford
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Prophecy in Farm Yard FleshThe flesh of God is His own very word
The bones underneath the skin are light but true
To the weight upon which they take the throne
Drips from sacrifice of God to man.
We cannot bow before it, too pooled
Too blood-red from the dam of tears
Blood poured for you.
The seventh angel spreads its wings
The prophecy is that flesh unhindered
Comes back into its own self. But truth
Is relevant to the Son of God.
Those days of sin for man are gone.
Clemency is everyone. Marked as twos; then cleft
Twain to explode His light inside, we are
The children of the life. He is
The truth that dwelt upon the seas
Of Socrates, Euripides,
Father God, quelled the storm,
Spoke against the norm.
Prophecy fleshed sits upon the bones and broods
Like a hen upon her only nest. Her sign
Is she is about to be blessed with the gift
Which she will market to the world. I am
Feathered from the seas of human thought
However, of human I am not
Of dark’s frustration, I am
The recreation of an oldest faction/function.
Her glow pours forth
From the lump beneath her stomach’s
Flesh, an egg which warms the very side of her.
The child of God sits upon the throne and watches
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