The Wooden God Poem by Antonio Liao

image and likeness of every man's,
curve in a given
time, seated as it form in a
sharp blade, ready to post in each
corner, silent but ready to be respected
and adore in many ways

stein of smoke crowded with flowers
waiting to a whispering lips of hope and
benevolent toss
almost all have gone, yet few have
survive, for the blind can see and the deaf
can hear for nothing is impossible to
listen than to talk in the
heart of wish

let the whole catacomb
cried and the swollen tears
seen as it falls to each lips; together
murmurs with pain, the poor
heart lifted the soul, hidden in the
valley of pain

incense burn boom to fire,
chanted with passion
to hear, and the choir echo the sweet
lines of compassion passing the line
of heaven to take a nap of rest

nape my solemn hymn and hail my
lips with praise...