Rather Pagan (Poetry)

I lay my head upon your altar
I’m a supplicant of sorts
who prays along with records
and the poems conscience bought
as I learn about the spirit —
how confusion takes its toll
upon a tired and tender body —
how guilt crucifies the soul

There’s a blood-letting of sorrow
and a transplanting of pain
stitching ragged squares of darkness
with no pattern and no name
for you’re the golden god of chaos
when you’re not the lord of lust
and too often you are absent
from your palace piled with dust

A rather pagan form of worship —
this admiration plus desire
and sheer passion’s its own furnace
I burn gladly in that fire
all your words are carved so deeply
in the temple of my flesh
as I kneel before you humble
in my sacrificial dress

I am seeking some redemption
I am hoping for release
I believe I’ll be forgiven
once I find life’s missing piece
but meanwhile I will adore you
in the only way I can —
let raw need undo its buttons
and pretend you’re just a man