The Priest III.
Your image is scorched upon my heart. My blessed blood flows with the smell of your gentle perfumery, like the elegant days before redemption. You are a fruit exposed to a thirsting mouth; you floweth into a needy world. The warmth of your grace envelopes my bony fingers and overwhelms me.
I know that I deserve no kind of delight. A creature bound by the night has locked away my every pleasure. The shameful begging slithers out of me during the weak mornings. The seven colors of the Sun shimmer in an occult prayer.
Trumpets ache with piety,
singing airs to joy.
The red bass bounces in the sonorous feast
of an onerous love.
To be held in judgment
is a terror known only to humanity.
To caress is a bliss
known to all vivacity.