Silence as I sit on the front of the stage, muted audiences, a young man, a wonderous sunrise and a sort of mustache above his lip.

Tears falling, as emotional tsunamis drown out the music, the sounds of the people and the polluted bibles left open on the table.

Thrown down towards the tribes, the words are twisted and translated into a Stephen King novel. Only the guilty can be bound to follow and kneel to.

Metaphoric meteor showers slide on my screen to form some sort of emotionally charged verbiage.

I wear this scar upon my chest like a badge of honor. I survived through the thunder storms and the clogged tunnels leading to salvation.

I don’t know how to pray, otherwise I would be wearing the straps and the strings. So I speak my mind and hope for the best.

Departed souls whispering whispers of adoration and forgiveness. Whispering… Whispers filled with parental guidance and power.