Oh my darling,
Oh my love,
Oh my precious dove,
This is not holy.
We are not holy.
Not to them, at least.
To them with pitchforks,
To them with hateful tongues,
To them with frozen, scared hearts.
We, my sweet prince,
Were never going to be holy,
Especially not to this proverbial them.
We are unclean,
We are wrong,
We, are, Apocryphal!
But holy is subjective?
No?
The only god above I ever believed in was the green canopy overhead.
Though I have found another as of late. . .
But I am quick to remember the thousand-thousand gods below:
The writhing worms, the crawling beetles, the sprawling mycelium.
Gods of the soil, gods of rebirth, gods of decay-as-an-extant-form-of-life.
I pray in the green chapel,
Root churned soil serves for a pew,
While sacrament is wild apple, and morning dew.
I pilgrimage the rivers and the valleys,
The forgotten places, wild and not.
In the heart of man-made caves o' concrete,
I seek tombs of a thousand unburied bodies:
They are small, and fragile, bearing eight spindly legs,
Gilt in silk, trappings made to catch and conquer.
My room, is a cathedral,
A temple to lost and forgotten things,
Un-Holy ground filled with un-consecrated dead.
But above all I cherish, all I worship and hold dear,
Above the rot and the green,
And the sun bleached bones,
Above my tattered tapestries,
And fading brass.
Only You, are placed upon the padded pedestal of this strange little church.
So I will pray at your altar 'till my knees are bloody and broken,
Until my tongue is dry and withered in my mouth,
Until my back is bent broken from the weight of your praise.
So I will love you as the green does,
As the worm loves the soil,
As the beetle loves the corpse,
As the mycelium loves the forest.
My pelvis will grind into yours,
Like two dancing bone butterflies,
Our ribs will tangle and intertwine,
Like fern fronds in a summer storm.
We will fill each others mouths with our tongues,
We dig bleeding graves with ivory shovels,
Burying love and soft words into weeping wounds,
Seeds that will bloom beneath our scarred and sacred skin,
Bearing fruit of flame upon our blood, upon our vessels.
We will fuel that flame, let it course through body and brain,
We will pour the wine and draw the drapes,
The light of our hearts is all we'll need.
And the shadows will run like prey before us,
We'll chase them through the once-dark wood,
A thrilling, ritual haunt, ending grand in an ancient grove.
A pyre is waiting there for us, my love,
We will shed our skins,
Now charred and flaking,
Charcoal blankets for the forest floor.
We'll dance upon the pyre,
A dance of flame and fire,
While shadows pile the fuel,
Ever higher and higher.
And when the night is through,
And all the fuel is spent,
And all the shadows die,
And all the world is bright,
Bathed in our light,
Then they will not deny us.
They will have no choice but worship.
When we sit upon the blackened husk,
Of their god's throne.
They will finally call us holy.
