Cave God
In me you pour your prayers your fears as you store meat in your clay pots. i am your bear-lion-god. i am dead things. empty space. and power. what do we make next?
The girl I knew.
She couldn't clasp her hands, as if in the form of prayer. she couldn't understand, why she was in a wheelchair. she never showed her fears, or let you hear her cries. she never showed the tears, that fell down from her eyes.
Make Me Like An Irishman
#1 of poetry a tribute to the irish and a prayer to god. lord, make me like the irishmen, let my reasons here be told: passion to the irishman be worth more than a pot of gold.
Ageing
Knowing the blessing of a mother's prayer.
For him
As when i go they are full of sadness i love your name- so suitable for mine i love your heart- so warm in the cold night you came to see me, though we have never ment to be i said i didn't want you to stay but in my soul you hear my prayer
Driven to Thirst
"i know," aria said, withdrawing her paws from their prayer-like formation. putting them on the edges of the table. gripping the edges of the table. "i know that you are untrustworthy.
When I Was Young...
But in my madness, and still, in my sadness, there's something i cling to with hope and a prayer that one day i'll find it, or worse, leave behind it, but still it remains like the chains that bind it to me...
Farewell, My Son.
My thoughts and prayers go out to you. may god allow you one day to return, until then for your face my heart will yearn.
"Life"
When i was a younger dragon (for i'm not yet old), the headmaster of my school had a favourite prayer, that of st ignatius loyola. this is written in tribute to him and to the words of the saint.
Ander - Chapter 6, Subchapter 66
He was lightly rocking back and forth, muttering prayer after prayer beneath his breath. in his hands he held a small leather pouch, crumpled and frayed with use.
Ander - Part 6: Subchapter 67
He was lightly rocking back and forth, muttering prayer after prayer beneath his breath. in his hands he held a small leather pouch, crumpled and frayed with use.
Wolf
I can't make the piano keys move i can't make dulcet words sing and the stories can't write themselves so why am i scared of the truth and i find myself second guessing that my life would ever get well nightingale, please take my prayer and