Time judged the sins
of the son. The Sun
shone on the rot in
my soul, and dried
that wound, so I could
go on. Young and bold,
I found pleasure in
the warmth of flesh,
and I learned that
it was not a sin, at all.
The Sin-Eaters feast
should never be served
cold. Drink from the hearts,
sup from the Souls, and
remember the lovers
that edged your hymnal
with gold. Sing their song,
wish them well, taste their
skin, and wait in Hell,
for Sin-Eater’s dinner bell.
God can’t take, what
God did not make, and,
in me, no mold could fake
what fire burns and rages
in that primal place,
where man decides his
own Goddamned fate.
Father, long dead, your
shame, so faded, died alone,
as margin-scribbled Holy pages.
40-years, alone,
in the desert, yet free.
It took 40 years
to find an oasis in me.
I drank so deeply
that I nearly quenched
the flame that burned
within, kindled from
shame. But, I burn again,
in the desert, today.
Fresh, pink flesh,
hidden beneath layers
of the Southern things
that crush us, in prayers.
Picked at the edge,
that old, dead meat
peels, sloughs away,
into the sand, to rot in
the field. I stand, a new
Man, not Holy, but healed.
Father – Son – Holy Ghost
©️ Obol, 2019.
