he stands outside the church in the snow.
sir, he says,
have you ever been touched by an angel?
have you drunk the nectar of the gods,
have you prayed at the altar of cherubim?
and cherub he is, all golden curls and rosy cheeks.
surely a beauty such as this is sent from above.
yes, you think,
the Lord has chosen me alone to receive His holy ecstasy.
so you follow through those grimy streets,
song of songs in your head, psalms dripping from your lips.
his touch is light, his voice is sweet,
and truly this must be Heaven.
Heaven is silken sheets and soft sighs.
Heaven is limbs entwined, words hushed and the room dark.
Heaven is a hand at your throat, the kiss of a knife,
oh, it is Heaven to die for Him.
he returns to the church to stand in the snow,
his pockets heavy but his heart light.
some say he sold his soul for the coin,
but I think he lost it a long, long time ago.
copyright g.wilson 2018