exposition

call upon the faithful,
the sunday mass shall begin!
oh yes,
   now see
  be more than grateful, since
      the ichor, on this very day!
flows like the rivers, you might say
even when the very essence shivers
            and out come the sounds
            of cold doses of prescriptions via diction
            you survive the description provided to you on a piece of paper
the later the better
so you have a lot to say
do not dare to pray for me!
I may just let the crossings reign
falling on you like burning rain
            thousands upon thousands of insects pouring down
oh yes,
            they are falling from the sky beautiful like red roses
                                                  blood upon the hands of Moses
acquisition! not from heaven
   this time
angel of the
      Oh Lord! forgive me for I have sinned a million sins and I am not keeping these
      behind closed doors,
      of course
      I make you watch me get ravaged,
      legs spread out in your house of prayer
                                                      encouraged by the crowds
                                                                                with vigor
      let me sing my own praises high up to the clouds
                                                                                                                                       turning grayer, ready to pour
      do not avert your gazes or try to tether me to the cross
it will only get me closer
      bolster my lust for the almighty God
the time has come for my enlightenment,
                                                                                   I am not sorry for your loss
there must have been a reckoning
            to pay for your entitlement
      the constant threatening
stares,

where is your power now?
I ask you again,
does this look like I am experiencing hardship?
it is so that worship is my daily bread
      I scream devotions in pleasure,
               embracing all the dead
      saints
      my rightful place always on my bruised knees
               now
                                                                                    please
      fill me up oh holy spirit, oh!
                                                                                   holy is my infertility
in the eyes of the beholder lies the possibility
of pure conception
   of my realization of self
staining the walls,
      poetry killed the prosaic
prophet, oh holy death in all your might!

               the Bible ends with white
    dripping from a pristine mosaic