He had a itch,
for less than righteousness.
He had a itch
more vast than one Spirit.
He wanted wrist to tie, and
mouths to cry at him
as they pray to God.
By all means they always did,
and without fail his flesh is debauched within her walls,
draining through them identical to a sewage drain pipe at its core,
utterly coarse and moist and pulsating,
and when he’d done abundantly,
certainly they’d look past his transgressions.
Certainly they would look lovingly under him this time,
and certainly then,
he would be at peace with himself, be satisfied with the last one,
as he reminisced on their graves.

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