Confessional #7

And a calculated risk; Vatican exports
toppling desire

My meat,
the bones,

A cylindrical and contemporaneous mask.
A cyclic surgical
dystopian commodity.

My body
accumulates
a measure of
condensation.

And I strum,
without hearing a sound. And I strum.
And I strum.

Festering inside of me,
the sins that I have
committed since dawn’s
beautiful rise.

And although I can
replace one sin with
the empty void of
love,

Only He can
cleanse me with
His grace.

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