I gave up kissing runes.
Gave up what was made to seem like black magic
And black bristle bottle brush lungs.
I pasted host sized patches on my skin
And prayed
To feel their holiness flow through my body.
Pure beige not hazy yellow stains.
I deny and
Decline and
I wear these few extra pounds like a merit badge,
A pious robe of glowing flesh.
And then this man who walks before me...
A pilgrim
From the old religion,
With greased hair
And lumbering gait.
His specks of ashes float back on the breeze
Like a tenacious spirit
On haunting me.
Until one day I repent and fall,
To my knees.
A length of a fragrant brown saint's fingerbone
Clamped between my chattering teeth.
Fingers, fumbling,
Calling an eternal flame to life,
To bring the relic
To blazing glory - so,
It can fill me up
With weightless, burning clouds
And make me feel
Once again
At peace.

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