A midnight daydream could not match my prolonged slumber,
but the ice cold grin of isolation prohibits my resistance
and such theology burns crisp justifications into my hands.
Golden locks of hair surround the frayed edges of a rug
conversing ideas and mocking the unscripted door I stand on.
So I fabricated a tasteless disposition
to leak through a thousand inconspicuous sermons
that lean against me like a pile of corpses.
Without a single whisper, I abandoned all but a faulty quest
which holds me like a rotting prisoner
between the contrived confessions of a minister
who is required to dress into the eligible axiom,
so he repairs his scattered dependence in the light of day
and polishes the scruffs of his boots with the blessed liquid of God.
But I required none but the shimmer of this crescent
which produced this aberrant midnight daydream.