and if the rules of the church
are the only way i'll get into
              "heaven"
well,
         to hell
                    with that .

i bow at the alter in
the church of imperfection
and pray softly here again
in storm of life confusion

This love is sanctifying me,
wines of ecstasy are pouring on my lips, injuring my soul with moaning,
I desire you only,
I desire the sweetness of our heavenly flavours from which the sun is melting and turning its gaze towards bottomless oceans,
let me drown my being in your absolute existence,
this shy soul of mine is giving fresh buds,
my tears are holy churches springing on Earth, where humble pilgrims search in quest for your graces and succour.

Kiss me in the church of Heaven, where deities fashion the faiths of humankind. My ruby heart now cracked in angel wings is melting on the lips of God. I am baptised in the sublime lips of divine wedding. My Lord, open the temple of Your abode and keep me from harm like jewels which are only found in Heavens. Sweet wine is poured on the edges of my hips; rose petals cry in the moon tapping.

She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
Higher.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.

When we went to church
my grandma used to say
"Pray for the one next to you,
ask for his prayers to come true"

"But, grandma" I once asked her
"Why can't we ask for things for ourselves?"

"Because that's what prayer should be,"
she answered graciously
"ask for the safety of others,
for them to get home safe,
for them to never be hungry,
ask for God to love all of his children.

We can get by,
but you never know if others can too."

its dark and muddy
I’ve always liked the sun
its dark and muddy
unforgiving weather
Each step however difficult is a tribute to you
you’re always in the corners of each room
not an afterthought, but often mentioned at the end
I fear the end
I envy those who take solace in echoing rooms of stained glass
I envy their lord
while I try to remember you
they try to summon strength
they succeed, I do not

this is what comes next,
we have learned
to wait for
this.

The choir concludes the service

We are eyes closed, air drawn to hands raised.

They sing because they happy

back in church

With bodies

always with bodies

Someone is screaming, tongue defying hymn

And yes, how far away we are

I miss him too.

His voice always singing familiar

haunts trumpet blaring

Sunday mornings.

Dark eyes and skin, wide smile, no teeth.

Fearless at 5 singing gospels with no concept of holding tight to strength in the lyrics. My ancestors and their ancestors. Am I listening?

I lose myself in years. I am not

Singing anymore. These chords have twisted themselves into the back of songs, I am

Writing, not singing or speaking.

Cottonmouth. I am sitting staunch against pews, leaning into worn piano keys. Foundation stains, and eyes watching, chestnut brown like mine. G in the key that breaks into silence. I hear a hymn being hummed, bacon cooked and waiting.

Memory tells me it is time to open my mouth

I sing 'cause I’m free.