[THAT SINFUL ACHE]
IN THE DUSTY CAVITIES
OF THIS HAUNTED SKELETON,
THESE CATACOMBS BEATING
WITH THE ART OF OTHERS,
LIES AN ORGAN.
[you ask me to play a song for you]
LAUGHTER ECHOES IN
THE BASEMENT OF THIS SACRED SPACE
AND WE DINE ON A POOR MAN'S EUCHARIST,
RICHLY PROVIDED BY THE BLOOD
OF THE WORK DAY AND PATIENT HANDS;
AS I POUR MY MELODY,
YOU SIP RED WINE,
EYES CLOSED
a simple confession
made in the fading
sunset:
You've never felt a love like this.
MY GHOSTS DANCE SILENTLY
TO THE FAMILIAR TUNE,
STEPPING ON MY THROAT,
TWIRLING IN MY WORDS,
DEVILISH SMILES OF THE MASS
MEMORIZED IN MY HANDS.
YET, IF YOU OPENED YOUR EYES,
IF YOU DARED MEET MY GAZE
IN THE STAINED GLASS LIGHT,
YOU'D SEE THAT
though I try to create
for the living,
my heart is faithful
to the lost.
COR MEUM,
SURELY YOU MUST KNOW THAT
IT IS THE CURSE OF THE POET,
THE REMAINING,
TO REMEMBER THE
MUSIC OF MADNESS.
[I'm failing to forget for you]
STILL, YOU DRINK FROM MY CUP,
AND I PLAY MY UNHOLY SONG,
HOPING YOU MAY NEVER SUFFER
AN UNWANTED ORCHESTRA SUCH
AS THIS ONE,
begging that you may never
seek me in the light of
Sunday morning,
THAT YOU MAY NEVER KNOW THE SONG OF AN ORGAN SO CRUEL.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoetryThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
