Come on, you fucks. Bring your ecclesiastic witness and your well-born intention. Bait the ignorant with common joy on the other side of life-long strife. Float in the unanswerable ether and evoke the billow and strummed heart, the burnished wings aloft in a sun-stained paradise where folly is forgiven and gates are unlocked by faith. Oh, what a lovely little lie you have left in the plague of man’s heart, any failure to subscribe a terminal diagnosis for souls otherwise in ascent, becoming on that wheel of betterment, but not here. Exalt! You bargained clergies with your hands kept low and out of sight! Come! Both to the sound of your omniscient benefactor and the sweet kiss of your ring. What’s due? Sacrament. Get full on that wine and underline that hate for your benefactors. Keep it going. Reload. Forget the spun sands, the gale-dried blood on the wrists, the ankles, and that excrutiating sacrifice because you know last gasps are final acts in a play written for dolts, and you hold the sun, suspended in hand, with all the answers of tomorrow as long as they pay for yesterday. Your savior came packing heat and the last man standing is the one with the most bullets. Keep dawn in the west, dusk in the east and the front door locked. He forgave, but not everyone. Just you.
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