Of the Temple Doormask and Retreat for Keymakers

Grocery clerks are diamond mines for carol singers in this coin of feat.
We were all humans at one point, but forgot our potential to be sand
along the Earth’s edges of the sea, Normandy cowhands or just visitors?
Coin-tossers on the platform of a temple doormask or marked persuasion
of embedded solitary arms with grey defeated uncles of passive language,
tell me what God this is you have here, or what God you see in your mind’s
third eye that would allow a reason for office space without trees for birds?
Previous verses recall the art, stealth of Poseidon, grifting anniversary lines:
The birds are God. The birds have always been God. All the birds are God.
The Ancient will Hear the most vulnerable call for a medical intercession.