A Mustard Seed is a Funny Thing
Poetry, if not in form, in matter
Monday, December 6, 2010
Self-Medication with a Capital L
We kill our murderers, imprison thieves.
We pity the broken, suff'ring, bereaved.
And yet we cry "Redeeming Love!"
When with stolen bodies from broken trust
We forsake our lives in hope--
We take another's in tasty lust.
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