To this day, the only Bible I keep with me at all times
has been a Catholic one. Occasionally, I find it ironic
that its verses haunt me like original sin and inherent guilt.
Your professions flow like excuses
through the membranes of my valley,
but your love has worn me down
by draining past in an evanescent flash.
I am tired of being tried; exhausted
by the silt carried in your undertow
sanding down my soul and willpower
as if you were never taught the virtue of patience,
because you always show up ten minutes early for intolerance.
You locked your lips to mine
amidst gravel that bit angrily at my elbows and your kneecaps;
pebbles that we kicked off the roofs of buildings to stone the infidels
of our past sins and the heretical nature of your emotional repression,
but there is no calf I can cast out of brassy gold or bronze
in order to redeem you as an idol for my faith's foundation.
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