you will be troubled by your lack of marvel
yours will be the kingdom of heaven
you dwell in poverty and you are poverty 
you will come to one with the manifestations
your fist will be as the inner swisselissius.
your heart will devour its animal power
then your heart will never unclench.
and you will become the prisoner of the dust.
and you will become one with the fist
and you will spill and devolve into an evil beast.
and you will blunt and spoil.
yours will be the company of the fornicators and usurors 
yours will be the fruit of an amicable and excellent disposition 
yours will be the fruit of a perfect holiness and conformity
your coolie will become sausage raw
sad hams will point towards grandma
fear based models of god creep into sin as death.
the fleshpot model of sin devours sin
faith collapses into arrogance. arrogance into shame. 
your chickens are roosters will call for the flowers
yours is the fruit of thy womb.
yours is the fruit of an unwed mother.
you will cough into your doctor's lap.
yours is the glory of a self-deceptive narcissism.
yours is the splendor of rectal thermometers.
yours is the glory of poor people.
your asshole is a disaster.
your children and chickens will send curses to the dust.
you will become one with the crust
then oprah's kweef will cure your optimism
the tender ridicule of december's putrid sunrise on your fuss