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Present Tense Priest

Sweet sound devil of our Thursday sacrilege
Lure me, lost in this crowd of turpentine misadventures
Away from the impending, bright-poison shackles of morning
Movement, pulsing, movement
Under the fade dream fantasy of your hologram-halo altar
Stainglass that once refracted light on our imperfections
Distorted now, dissuaded
Manipulated to breathe new light on us sinners
Still we stand, bounce, gyrate
To exalt newfound, everchanging
Impermanent deities

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