honey & homesickness

witch

He is the sacrilege,
The bloody footprints at the edge of your bed
And the priest's crooked smiles
During the graveyard-child's hymn
And a spoiled winter-sung curse on blue lips
And the fire licking at your bruised ankles.
He is the sacrilege,
The man who feasts on the thunder in your chest,
The man who shudders at your voice,
The man who finds a false god in the mold.
He is the sacrilege,
But you are devotion,
Living in the cracked walls and stained glass,
Finding the abused woman's prayers in the dirt
And lifting them to the chipping murals,
Chasing out his spitting damnations
Hidden behind his hushed confessions.
He is the sacrilege,
But you are the light.