And when the lie is told so well
—no whispered truth be heard—
that Heaven can be forged of Hell
if we can nail the Word,
I much suspect they'll blame the dead
locked in their whitewashed tombs,
that man cannot eat stones for bread,
nor exit twice the womb.
I much suspect, I'll add this more,
the prophets' world's not small.
Rejected truth, what they deplore,
a grander world's soft call.
For they've enclosed only themselves.
The Word, alive and free,
echoes through the crypt's cold shelves
calling to you and me.
E Matrice
Tale Told 