I Confes***it Was You To Poem by James McLain

Without sound hunting down the eye when
shown a grey blistered sky you
know it is.

Is it you berift of thought blazing trails contrail
willowed slinder branched a bright
green leaf when free.

Thunder blushed a face indiscrace frail distaste
bitter on your tounge ink well
ran dry.

Hundred thousands ask me now millions cast
there lots you know tolling of the bell
all wonder why.

Outside looking in the sin wonder not missgivings
when the sun is blazing high
into your face.

Unto palm of hand you ran O lined of't furrowed did
return a favor bought by you to
gain my trust.

Tender mercies rought from you compassion love
was bought with dew tears running
down our face.