I am converted.
Compulsively baptizing
myself in your arms.

I've been redeemed and
I have been denied by you.
Gone through the wringer.

Released. Doubt ripped out.
You've never killed anything
that you loved before.

Not even the frail
Belief I claimed you murdered.
Faith is just an ache

for what should survive.
God dies alone in the heart
of Humanity


everyday. Death
cures all disease, in the end.
Even faithlessness.

It's a long low road
back to the fold; to the bed
where I just hold on.

Unsheathed against you,
like religious conversion.
Lest we come undone.

God has come, pushing
fallen stars into the wound
of Sunday morning.

Offering up the
stark, beaten heart that meant Love.
But made Grief instead.

God. He has come to
ruin. Come to ruin us
with Beauty. Again.

Ruined by Beauty.
On the very rack of Joy,
I feel God pulling

all of me into
you. Hand over fist, pouring
me across the bed.

The way water wears
away stone, I wear a home
for me inside you.

Enter me. Enter
and inherit God's Mistress.
Full of Fallen Stars,

I am - Broken stars
inside your arms, now, Darling.
Twilight's bruising kiss.

Whether or not comes
Summertime. Whether or not
we shed the Winter.

Even if the Wolf
blows our house down. Even if.
We have built of straw.

Remember the sound
I make against your body:
Bow and Violin.

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