The Priest II.
Statues gaze into the cavernous hall and weep at the sin which flows out of the multitude. This is a world of debasement and tingling skin. This is an age of vibrating ears and racing hearts. We fling ourselves at every form of nakedness, and write somber odes of isolation.
They look to me, the stained priest, for comfort. But I am not the pure cloud that grumbles on a tumbling horizon. I am filth in wet drawers! A lecher with perverted symbology!
The haunted longing
which swoons upon my breast!
The impossible dreams
that flutter in my gut!
Its smile is like the bent bow of love.
Its eyes are the soothing legato
of a swan in its final dance.
I shed a single tear for Its beauty,
like a liquid diamond of tribute.
It stalks the dark forests of my muse,
the strutting devil of a bleary fever.
And I love it,
to hold an idol in my arms,
to caress Its skin,
to gaze into Its charms and lusts.
It is sinister.