passionately sliding, his pleased masculinity
                                     is the hidden slide of her life
so much for affection       so intimate and secrecy
                         to creep most of their teenage years
in order to calm their engine  
       in a country blessed by a believed savior
       where your age matters
                     social        and even attires controlled by religious school
to claim purity is to be praised           especially in girls
    
but she, her own beliefs- undaunted
    and him       with all support and own ideas
of simple living   of making love      of dreams and even disasters
to finally understand      all connections     and everything around
     without a fear
to finally stay together
and love and loved

you'll look nice in your grave,
pale and surrendered
to the earth,
All sins forgiven,
By the judging,
For death is sad,
And you won't know,
The faces who came,
To watch you go.
If you don't wait long,
You'll never see the sun again.
Ah,
Death is on my brain.

I heard your steps.I had a feeling
that red leaves knocked to the
ground while falling from an imaginary
tree. I simply knew that they became
frightened in the fall. I had the feeling that

I heard your steps, I had that odd
sensation that you were still alive.
But, in the next moment, I was sure
that I didn't really hear any step.
I saw my Ligustrum vulgare losing
its leaves. I saw myself in the mirror.

I couldn't hear your steps.All I knew was
that I loved you. All I could hear was
the fall of the leaves.But in the next
moment, I felt your kiss on my incurable
and irreversible wound.

I heard the church bell ringing.

She was an ordinary girl.
Plaits beside a waistline she drew on with ribbon,
Fastening her thoughts she'd sworn to keep hidden.

Behind closed doors she would loosen the noose
Man ******* before her,
And bind up her lover
The milkman's daughter.

The church, the steeple
My home, my people
How close to sin
How far from Him
While hypocrites preach
I pray the lord, my soul to keep

I was always the atheist who capitalized the G.

The girl in the back of the choir wondering why we never sang about Her.

Fretting over Anne Frank's place in a Catholic heaven,

I left God like a lost childhood friend.

We had one too many arguments.

Differences, in opinion.

It's hard to be a loyal Christian
When you find comfort in HER arms
And judgment on the church pews.

The sun hung low,
sliding down below
the trees,
whose leaves had turned a golden yellow
from autumn's adoring
kiss.

The clouds looked gray,
seeming to bring in
thunderstorms
that weren't to come,
at least not today.

We spoke of
mysteries,
created poetry in our
realizations,
harmony fostered with the gentle
breeze
as we laughed.
The aha's and uhuh's,
the self-discovery and
conceptualization,
they were the sermons,
the creed,
the metanoia.

The rooftop sunset was
the sanctuary,
the gust of wind the hymns,
the moments of silence were
moments of reverence,
our spirituality
birthed in the
gravel
under
our feet.

The world is
our religion.