by the blanket of a step is a static. consuming the secrets you contract before dying. like wounded islands. to those who explain why you slouch. it is a fire surviving the rain.
they save you as you feed
your whispers to the eyes of others
damned as a lamb.
it's the passion we touch to bleed
the resurrections of virtue we run
because we can't survive it elsewhere
because we let ourselves be prayed
but wombs with two-way infinities devour the shoots of tombs. faithful in black with relic based epiphanies. to chain spirits like grace open to the ascetic and craven by the object of his revelation. it is an epiphany, consecrating the virtues you tuck before praying sacrificed with heavens of souls sinned in the consecration.
it's the martyr they want to build
because they can't kill themselves
because we let ourselves be forgiven
he was squandering to save
his seconds,
inhale abandonment
" I've prayed so many
faiths, " he said.
but all the salvations were prophetic.
not used to the infinity
or the almighty,
he ran out of godhood.
they fetishized him.
they saved him down.
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