The Gospel

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The man in the garden wall

Fresh; his emergence into skin

A new branch, he

And a body not yet felt, not owned

And he spoke with the fever of emerging life-

And called that voice his own.

But the garden’s wall was under season’s rule

And he was prisoner to the gateway he had chosen…

“I watched the terror on his face,

“As his body was consumed,

“In a landscape of brown shadows,”

That then turned to black.  I watched him die, and fade

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