I’d never touched the surface of the moonlight.
Shades of green bathed in milky light covet the stars of their shine.
What if there were no more comfort? No more tv to drown out the anxiety of our sin. No more facades canarying plastic joy into our utter isolation. I stand on the dark side of the moon. That's not grass, it's the grocery store, and that's no moon, it's the simple light glazing the forefront of endless milk jugs. All is real and fake and melded to the imagination of our subconscious desires. Milk is evil, and ******* is the gateway to heaven. We’ll never see what our habits blind the truth to, or what our spirits refuse to believe. I stand in this aisle, and I see God. But six people walked away from Him.

Let's say corona
Do not say corona
What a puzzle!

The brain in the puzzle
The world has a muzzle
They searched for a goal

They were at war
The increase is in struggle
Against the clear and virtual
They told the virtue is the liar

From the ancient that was a gaggle
Laughter and mock of pure
They insist the laws Tatar
Go through

The upper ability was here
Her responsibility must appear
The punish will survival

As we are like the Jesus talked
If one has no iniquity
Throw it with a stone

The world has a sin
The world does not the deserved
Who had a great fault

The do not prevent the oppressive
He throws only the weak and clear
The sins must be wide
The vice must be beyond
Our vision, land and mind

The fair test
The  temptations from the evil guest
The contest
The jest
choosing an apple  over eternal rest

Guess who am I?
The forbidden fruit
The humanity foolish tribute

I am not sad not even sorry
For the limitless lust for glory
Is the butterfly effect of the story.

Hot breath
Boulder swallowed to the center of my chest
Hands tied to the route past the river of styx
Tongue torn tossed
Eyes darting almost lost
But able to see the molten
Asylum made just for me
The notetakers of my fate
Did more than just write notes atop
My shoulders
God's servants hands look more like man's
Pressing against this sinners throat
Bubbling hot tempers for angels
Telling me hell came early

I don’t want to pray about you.
Not because God and I are taking a break,
Not because I’m busy,
Not because I can’t close my eyes without blinking away tears.

But because I’m scared.
I admit it,
I’m scared.

I’m scared that God will take you from me,
I’m scared that he’ll smite me for loving you.

I’m scared that God will cast me out of your garden,
I’m scared that the snakes and I are tangled into each other.
(We’re unrecognizable. Who knows where slither starts and fingertips end.)

I’m terrified that God will tell me that you and I aren’t meant to be,
That we are abominations.
That this wasn’t a match made in heaven.

That we are slowly falling,
In love,
Back to earth,
With wings scorched black—

Please.
Don’t ask me to pray,
Or you just might catch me with my eyes wide open whispering sweet nothings to a God I’m fearful of.