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I Am Santo

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Make Them Cry Holy Tears

Heavens pale
As light-leaked frailties,
Coarse afterthoughts after sullen failures,
Sunsets lost behind cloudcover.
Let them.
Those dieties can fade
Into antiquity
With the hushed sweep
Of hot breath
Dancing on flushed skin.
This lust breeds wildfire synergy
An all-consuming swallow
Of flame over each alleged sin,
Betraying wholeness with need,
A craving that burns
From an alight core.
Damned, they’d say
Shaking heads as if it were a death sentence
But these are stolen glimpses into
Ecstatic eternities,
Quaking, exquisite blinks
Desired more than any gold,
Any promise,
Any reward.
In that moment
The flare of union
Opens hope,
Collapses dreams,
And as muscles lock
Into unreasonable clutching,
Thighs wet,
Fingers tangling hair,
Lips parted,
The posture of divinity
Cracks with eggshell fragility.
Easily attainable,
The whispers of Gods
Deservedly were shunned
By the breathless, frenzied cries
Of mere mortal bliss.
Sing those righteous prayers instead
To those that gnash
As the delicacies they are.
For there are no finer dishes
Than the ones fools claim are served
In Hell;
There are no finer skies
Than those clear enough
To watch an inferno


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