Christ is a false God
that's it
I've finally penned it
and I feel alive as an
April Wind
subtle as a thunderclap
my head spins
my vision shifts
the floor, wall, ceiling
inner lids
the brightest constellation.

It's a slow fade
or a sudden fall
my flesh is an idol
this house, these words
Where is my fulfillment?
it comes on the breeze
as if whispered by the marble sky
or up from the soil
which stains my tepid skin
I step away again.
It's meaningless.