This sarcophagus is suffocating me.

Gasping for breath, clenching my fists,
I raise my head.
The altar is sanctified, and provocative in its beauty.

By sleight of hand my passions cease.
My skin turns into marble,
pearl white like the floor of the cathedral.

I am becoming hollowed in this hallowed hall,
and glistening with sweat and scotch
pouring down my neck and glowing with anger.
I am slipping into insanity in the presence of God
and a family of Chinese tourists.

Hemingway must be ashamed of his disciple.

And yet I suffer.
I remain a victim of my own tarnished action.
If New York is the light, heaven is the darkness.
Yes, that sounds right.
Heaven is the darkness

This is my purpose now;
to bury my head in the hands of unforeseen, sunken failure
and bargain with that which I know does not exist.
My loathing has always clouded my judgement in this place.

Iodine drips into the holy water,
and ash coats the altar.

Burn the cross; it makes for good firewood.

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