counterfeit

cheap grace it is called when past becomes stamped on today: again the same motions of bowing, repentance and an audience wowed, and the coffers are heavy with illicit activity, boogeyman wishing to say something, but are bound and tired to the silver hope that god's grace is infinite, which it is, though the boy, girl, the children watching the play could all see why the mask often drops, is taken up again the wearer looks furtively when it appears no one is watching, sighs, enters pandora's box and dances with chaos, so much more wondrous it is this true feeling of euphoria when the pleasure last. the shadows loom, elongate, the past reminds then the player again bows, weeps for heaven's grace, it is infinite, you promised snarled the being towards the stars: you cannot lie. and of course god could look down, as he always does, never lifting or arguing, while the crowd makes their judgement, children giggled at the strange vast discrepancy on what is, what is told. that - said god, is the truth.