On the restless road of existence,
Winding through beatnik midnight dreams,
I met a wanderer with stigmata palms,
Tales carved into hands like nomadic streams.
Under the neon hum of jazz club nights,
His scars sang stories of holy flights,
How the weight of the cross bore heavy and true,
On hearts searching for redemption’s hue.
He’d seen angels in every corner dive,
Playing...
Continue reading...