Let swim the grin, across your chin, and the one thousand sins, you wish you can tint, behind your words and your hints, quickly become a weapon, a flint, you stab your chest with then sprint, at the splinted weak heart to leave your footprint, but there is no space for another trace, so you chase the shadow of an old place, that once left a grin on your face, and you cannot replace, with a thin glaze of a Taizé.
Let swim the grin of an untouched conscious, of a sole self master, of a slave with thousand lashes, of a disciplined pastor, who prays for buried ashes, to resurrect into a living emotion, that will always exist even after the last light flashes, and darkness passes, through your heart with a grin.