ceremonial bells mimicking star sounds
surrounded by a cultish chant raising the most high
gowned men traipsing with incense, encircling a congregation
of white men and submitting wives in their sea of offspring
smoke lingering on the walls
protecting the saved from my sins
hair covered in untainted lace while mine falls
over my back that carries the weight of a non-believer
planted on an unforgiving pew instead of standing with the byzantines
don’t wash my sinful feet
id rather dig them in wild grass and worldliness
than bow with an aching back to touch the robes of the bishop
holding burning incense beneath chains of bells
hypnotically swinging in daily routine
crooning ancient texts that waver on the same five notes
he told me the road to hell is paved with the skulls of bishops
so add mine to the mix
my purple bishop blood warming my thighs as i suffer for eve’s curiosity
my pectoral cross blaspheme in place of praise
i used to take communion
now i’d be damned, damned to a life of
meals without prayer
romance without a space for the spirit
and exposed skin without shame