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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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