Plastered Tabernacle

Blubbering voices cannot communicate
a desired fluency
supplemented by tears
and fear of the face superimposed into clouds.

Stealing consecration from the altar
yields fiery arrows,
thrown into clusters of cancer
and the choking vine of the willow
hunched over—
or is a spit-soaked thumb
slathered into your will.

On red feet, arches have fallen.
Hoped for light years from the man of the hour
is creation theory traded for the Big Bang.
Kinky root communication among
a victim’s fear of the water’s covenant,
burdened by a sanctuary of bastards and champions;

glazed over, pulpit eyes
engage the inertia of jacket-clad duality
who chose to stare out the window instead.

This poem is about: 
Me
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