The Insurrectionist
Now not the past counts the days from where all things feel faith
Not nothing without trickles made from wood design fringes of earth
Not without drips blood forms through clots along wounds designed well
By not the wooden striped cross crossed over legs and wounds again
Can know where all this world's insurrectionists and thieves and traces
Can know their path into this world with insurrectionists turn condemned
And the condemned know nothing about the past counts of days where
Things turn to something sweet and stronger as blast but less great than rest.
Not nothing without trickles made from wood design fringes of earth
Not without drips blood forms through clots along wounds designed well
By not the wooden striped cross crossed over legs and wounds again
Can know where all this world's insurrectionists and thieves and traces
Can know their path into this world with insurrectionists turn condemned
And the condemned know nothing about the past counts of days where
Things turn to something sweet and stronger as blast but less great than rest.
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