Brushes
Kill me once and twice, Internal worries resist As the killing of me would entice The killing of you afterwards. But bodies are souls And minds are like matter From the inner voice. Dying is tragic as godliness is skilful, My auctions are about with worry, Indolent actions result from no pain, So then worry and solve the puzzle Of eternity, and spare me. For sparing me causes me to Be martyrs and saints, Like the old regulatory laws Fuelling the old self, The soul of mystical learning. Sign in to see full entry.