Fles

Pulchritude and simplicity.

With no sliver of space, beau-nasty silver or ivory gate between.

Everything that evil cowered from was bared and banished by a single name. The ordinary hardly preceded an extra following. In the vascularity of religion, there was a gentle poison. Belief was contingent upon the consumption and acclimation of carnal substance.

If asked to turn the page, the number is of paltry import. Whorls lightly graze along words, neither embossed nor depressed. Articulate ink stains arranged to compose the most elegant and insightful psalm. A voice, hesitant to recite. Never raised on the nectar of steady conviction.

Each turn of the page renders the last a blank slate. Any man, woman or child who gazed intently, engrossed even by the weathered margins, would witness a start of burning parchment.

Dare not to read between the lines…