Second Person

The priestess kissed you for your christening.
Risen out of sin, you tremble as she removes
her facade. Revealed macabre. Accosted at
random and lost ten days in the malaise of futility.
Crescendo-ed to the gates of fated faces.

Lo,
you where found. Dirty and hurtin'. Behind curtains,
pulled tight like the drum. And some Tuesday blight
was always peeking inside. To no shame that resided
there, those outside still hide from desire, nature, and
twilight.

You know midnight, alright. Its the only thing you'll
stand tight for, in righteous fire. The moon is a tab
of extacy. The air is a cool, lucid liquor. Misunderstood
at nigh. And providing silent hindsight.