frothing sermons for seconds past
and myriad mistakes
that congregate in whirlpools of shame,
I'd feel the pain of a tiny, endless world
dissipating in a structured void
of silent, hydrogenic granite.
Away, pustulate words
that never healed betrayals,
raked bone chapel, mine,
in a splatter of rearranged
gaunt icons of the holy,
a haunting of perfect ghosts
in self inflicted lacerations.
My friends of misery would stand tall,
proud like lead crosses,
as I'd absorb the nails to atone
for feasts of skin and milk,
to every place solid or dreamed.
I'd picture trading blood for comfort cold
to solve the riddle of war,
for love becomes the word of flame,
of throbbing membrane
in godly, infernal delight;
but the spirit whispers forgiveness,
seeping through the seams
of walls built of question marks.
For fire and water to be wed or gone,
perhaps as life requires pain,
freedom demands a little death.