I try to plant my humour in the soil of heaven, but I am befooled. The false dawn creeps and forces it upon the wet rocks, doomed to wither in the shadows of doubt. Angels doth pull a face as I toil fruitless knowing it will yield not a stem of value.
My joy is bereft of account and cold as ash upon the clay. My cries will only mock my lips and charge only silence to the savior's ears. His prideful sheep delight in their glib wonder. So I remain a tale of jealous woe told to idiots.
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