All hunger begs for the divine
even as we kneel before false idols
sacrificing ourselves in the smoke of lesser fires

The aching body does not lie
it howls for unity
in sweat-slick beds of remorse

Vice, sticky & sweet
becomes the damp trail
back to something older than virtue
throbbing beneath sin

We spoil by the stench of delusion
swallowed by sheets still warm
with the ghosts of want

And yet
at that trembling threshold
between ruin & devotion
He appears

Not robed in light
but crowned in blood-wet thorns
impossible, mystifying, warm

He waits
between the thighs of heaven & hell
where spirit slips its skin
and is born again