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There are always three sides to a story

His, hers and that of  He who deserves the glory

For clearing up the warped and blurry

Memory of the unworthy

Those who do the twisting and turning

Traveling off course and bridge burning

So much smoke, that the truth gets coked

To death, because they choose to reflect

Narrate to their dying breath

A tale of two cities

One aimed at garnering pity

While desecrating and hating

manipulating and creating

A tale of woe

Just so, the story may go

Their way

Therefore, the other city must pray

The truth be told

That a happy ending unfold

As the Master edits the scroll

Regenerates the souls

Of each side, of the story

Until it unites with the Glorious

Version, Heaven and hell, converging

Victoriously emerging

At the crossroads, where the two roads

Collide in and out of the darkness

Into the light, of the Only witness

At the scene of the crime

Who can acutely define

Make what was twisted, into a straight line

On the side of the Divine

Poured out like new wine

Miracles performed over time

And written By, the Mind of Christ

 

I prefer the DIVINELY edited version,

Mommy Dearest

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