Heaven is full of bitter loss,
from the ones He chose—
for the many He did not.
We climbed the stairs of polished lust,
with fears of touching ones we’ve loved.
So we descend the steps and swear to die as virgins.
Love is like the voice of God.
It comes to you in a chemical chain reaction cloud.
It carves your initials on every forest’s tree,
accompanied by some vulgar plead,
circled by a heart carved like some cave art.
It comes to few, like a leper’s touch.
It praises Him, for what He had done—
but it never fails to stop at introductions.
God on the wall of a bathroom stall.
“Call me for a good time if you’re a sailor of stars.”
The night time is the best for self reflection.
I need you to confess your sins.
I need you to lay down like soldiers, dead in Berlin.
I need you to surrender all hate, despair, greed, and confusion.
Did you say your prayers every night?
Did you worship Jesus and do what’s right?
Did you stay a virgin and never befriend a faggot?
If this is the voice of God you know,
I feel so sorry for your bitter soul.