Give me all of your sins I shall immure them

She weaves tantric tantrums
in between a bleeding nictate
I'm as shallow as the river racing
through her velveteen thump drum mirage.

Bound,

to laudanum whispers
syphoning dulce litanies,

from Azazel's headless battalion
standing stoic as a Prozac brigade
into the throated throe
of a brumal dawn,

where the old guard stencils
kaleidoscope crucifixions
in the handicapped spectrum.

We wail greenhorn selahs
hoping it breaks
the crested caress
of a delayed cypher
vaporizing a absentee deity,

never understanding,
the contractual concept
of waking as a forsaken prism,

we only question the existence
of our collective heartaches
blind to the answer,

as it wormholes through
the macrocosms tertiary eye
into a placebo pediment
of recycled lessons,

instilling us as eternal
sentimental sediment.

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WhisperingQuill.All Rights Reserved.
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