I don't feel the shame
at nights, Since the dark pain,
inflicted my damped soul,
Through his fingers
trailing my thighs
Poking its way through
the murky mess
Not from bleeding, but
from heaviness
My heart can't hold,
or shake off like the easy loss
of a stained white
dress.
I don't recall it at
all at day,
Since my voice, seem
loss and frail
From the silent cry,
screeched from fear,
ladenned with threat, emboldened by death.
I died daily at his altar,
where his cassock condemn my spirit to perpetual penance,
It's not the pulpit
that accuses me of consent
The book didn't
remember to judge me guilty.
It's his countenance
that spurns my flesh to rile
With contempt for
self, his sacred lips committed me to damnation
His lifted hands in
righteous places, point me to my unholy sepulcher
So, I live, yet dead
to him, who feeds of my unholy temple to pleasure his anointed vessel every
night in ungodly ways.
I learn to silent the
demons by light, by wearing my solemn devotion,
With my nunnery
garment, bidding my preachers will,
Waning my soulful
dirge to mourn the memory, I choose to bury,
With each dawn, even
as the ritual at dusk calls me early.
When the sun rises, my shame fades.
When the moon walks,
my will, my fear tames.
Again, tonight, shame
died.
