Holy Ghost – Trinity, Pt. Three

Every home is haunted.
These temple spires,
though daunting, are
no exception. Noisy
specters, with their
Golden Rulers of
Morality Measure,
log the data, in a
spreadsheet titled,
“Absolutely. No. Pleasure.”

But, I asked the ghosts
a question, “Why am I
denied?” Their answer
was telling. You already
know what they said,
so why bother sharing.
Suffice to say, whenever
I taste the blissful flesh
of love, they are panting…
Southern-drawled ranting.

Holy Ghost, begone!
You are the problem.
You made me, an image
best suited for shattering
mirrors. Your minions hold
the truth no dearer.
I deny you. They fear.
They hold inside the rot
that kills. The dead cannot
feel. Ghost, be still.

Such is love, for the
recovering Baptist.
Lives lost, lives wrecked,
in pursuit of madness.
I am me, presumably
made in His image,
so either he’s flawed,
or I’m perfection from
the very first sinning…
Oh, I’m just beginning.

Each kiss, each taste,
of the southern things,
from which I’m made,
will bring the fire, the
steaming heat, from
the sweat, as my lover
breathes. Whisper here,
speak to me, let’s incant
a ward for He, the Ghost.
You… lay here, burn with me.

Father – Son – Holy Ghost

©️ Obol, 2019.