There will never be an artificial substitute, a complex Gordian knot of wires and chemicals, the badly bruised heart stem beating like a cannibals drum made of ancient bones and flaps of patchwork leather and splotches of red paint Palestinian-skin.
Orange sand, hot shadows, the resurrected pulp and wild-wind-owls perched atop the olive tree, rows of talons from a cinematic-like angle, the body that is no longer alive.
Inward and outward, sky-sharks and psychology professors who look like Zelda, synths and clones, the waxen complexion of synthetic humans all droning around and speaking vulgarities, vultures circling the living-dead, a digital world made of inauthentic hazy topaz, the vapors from gas pumps and a world blest with endless war, black-soul-savages, all the same, echoing only each other, those who follow political leaders and a bulbous and bloated larvae-like Pope who licks children while having an erection.
Should seek the Kingdom.
There is no church.
It has and always been made of breath.
Crucified, buried and risen.