The High Priestess role in Heir's story
Flowers in the Garden, Father is Upset
That once the role of the High Priestess was to have the children of the village and only her was soiled in the disgrace that one would a barren land call not in service to the meaning she once had. Shame would befall the garden and then the Lionesses would know that the cat mint was not in the Garden. They would as bees needs too know the role, yet they damned my life as a gardener for they threw away the precious roots and have only tender leafs to tend now.
Gardening in the golden light meaning of not any cups like butter in the fields. They betrayed the womb and dared to call themselves that role. It was tribal once by a tree of life that they thought life, then in the other meaning they hurt the barren lands as well, men may be on pause but my Fathers in my life awakened and their is no ally to assist in the brutal lies that they wanted planted, I would not front face a store with yesterday's trash yet the foundations of life is the nature in which it was raised.
Having only a few cents, then one would know where may a gay and golden blue jay would fear to fly. Had it not fallen from it once then they disgraced, even the whore meaning of organism. I think they deserve the cold floors and dusty smells of life. Have the ghetto want-to-bee spoke with anything but perfect acted scripts, I heard them in the garden, such brash and silly fools to think a listener would not hear. Not a child, just I do not care for the meanings now.
Let them act out the flower duet and the rest without my Heart for their are no humans once in the garden and one day I would spill all their beans to lift magic flowers to the thoughts of clouds and other worldly places, not that flowers fly on jets for the cost of beauty. That they are themselves the product of a world, then themselves, that commodity in vanity and envy of a life not able to bee in the meaning. They had graded whores, X, XX, XXX, and the graded eggs. That they graded passes in life was the last dance, and the kingdom best in show was neither standard nor of the same cultivar. They had shamed the time before senses. A whore is a whore after all, or am I wrong in moral Hell? Shame, I never said one was a shamed dancer and I was friends with a dark angel in conversation on the bus, that you all shame my generosity of spirit is, well live with the animal kingdom that the dharmas wanted, that it was a lotus in one being was your lily pad frog, now unavailable for courtship, forever. Then they can have their ugliness, and cold non-touchy floor back and freeze with no comfort.
Had I a better eye for flowers, nothing would have changed. The garden happens in the garden the way flowers and seeds land, they just dew like the honey dews of the fruits of ambrosia. Have even the nectar of the Gods been fowled by their presence in the act they are now trapped in? It would stand to reason that they flew off the pages of children's books and imagination to walk life while the blue meanies are cast to stone and flights of flocked weather. It was the wise judge that judged not the land of never made real for lies that bore it too great to touch my heart. And they would lie their liars caps to pedal hurt that nature gave them at birth.
They had deserved the life of centuries in months, to be alive like the giants they looked to in their shadows. I would sit, stand, lay and walk with them until they had lived their needs and wants unashamed of them, not like the others who stole solace and forbid all else their March. Not that death never happens in the energies of potentials, had man such daring to name the unnamed, I would not be in their return, man. Good for them that can live now then in the sorted garden of life, and they had so coveted that they blinded themselves and went deaf like the stone cold floors that made them colored beings, gaily dancing their lies. She was the worst, the hips don't lie and they do not look appealing on the men either, too much vegan soy hatred that needed meat in small bits.
I saw that they destroyed the body that only deer and gazelle use to run in. That was clear at advent of this leg of the journey. Sad that they so unseen in it by culture, and the words a jumbo for my psycholinguistics, they damned us all to this eternity. Everlasting glory until, they all die from sterile fields. I would walk until my death and then the field would see no more than just feces of reincarnated flowers and manure, to sense the senses. They that damned were such scared flowers to hide from life, and all was as it were in the inability to touch even the kindest child. They denied it, the older ones. Why would I come here to be shamed, other than to see my beliefs in all made real and everlasting, then know I believe I will leave, and then have fun with the replacement fun.
Have fun in the barren lands, they cursed everything I wrote and lived, to be the damnation of their origins. The trees are just as upset for ever handing them branches to read and money paper to lay waste to kind man, Steven. They got everlasting forgiveness for their curse and lifted the familiar curse so the good that were punished be alive in the ones that damned them too. I can never love another fully ever save for the new beliefs I have and that will never fusion make in the oven.