It’s Latin, but I promise I’m not doing it to be bougie.
Poem 196 of 365 –
The path to the altar is worn;
The grass trails away from it in increments,
like a tattered shirt.
My footsteps are heavy as I carry a corpse over my shoulder.
My conscience is weighted as I imagine your cold stare.
I’m a grave robber,
A corpse collector,
A filthy wretch,
A truth rejector.
I have so much love to give,
But I waste it on myself.
I protect my self image so much it hurts –
Can you tell?
Love is patient, love is kind;
The only one I treat this way is I.
Love is precious, sacred, that’s why
It’s treason when I look up to the sky
And say, “I have love, and it’s all mine.
I don’t need yours, it’s not worth my time.
Your love requires work, and I’m not inclined
To do it,
So I guess this is goodbye.”
You know there’s a lot wrong with that,
But I clench my fists and resist the hands
Lovingly lead me back to the altar,
That spend the precious currency of affection
So that I can be his.
That’s why I bring the corpse back
That’s why tears rack my body as I lay it down.
What I gain after outweighs what I lose now.
For the last time, I look at the dead woman’s face,
Stroking her cheekbone, sad to leave
But at the same time knowing it’s my release.
I am deceased, a testament to grace
It’s not easy, but I reach into her ribcage
And claw through the gunk to establish my peace.
I am vulnerable – how He wants me to be.
I watch the Crowned Coroner replace
My dirty heart with a clean slate.