See the picture of broken humans, bent backs, torn drums.

Adam had his ribs stolen in a sleep.
It was a dusty scene, an Artist’s curve -a slippery breath.
He woke to a morning of mystery.
To a flowery eyes of longing passion staring at him, clinging to his waist, burning his thighs.
In a canvas, two souls burnt into one as the garden worshipped god forms.
Then the story of an apple trailed – a command sweeping with the wind.
Fleeting as emotions.
A betraying serpent glided like the morning.

Opened like oiled doors- sly words that caught at his throat.
The Woman picks her curse like a choice, and the man carries a sentence like doom.
An evening walk that ceased and the leaves that hid his dignity.
Was knowledge, sin?
To be armed with the stories of insight and wounded tales?
To be circled in the wealth of the ancients?
Listen to the voice that says “Where are you?”
The voice that beckons in the evening is wearing, fading with the heat of the day.
Will you recline with the darkness, curse with the soil, roll with pain?
See the picture of broken humans, bent backs, torn drums.
The crushing enmity with snakes and sons.
These words stare in blinding red. Aching centuries..
We, the Heirs to trembling stories are now Heirs according to the Promise.

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