Ascending towards occasionally opened one-night stands of dogeared, dusty pages,

I discover my forearms contorted amongst forlorn images.

At the searing point of withered works in progress,

I idolize Saints whose mechanisms surpass mine 

as a meager cherub,

delivering demeaning news of contemporary heresy.

I've invited Abaddon to a tryst and anticipate what will come of this.

At eventide, he offers a glass of champagne and anticipates my descending again.

By dawn my head hangs and I continue to hiccup,

Ejecting an aroma of unorthodox affection.

I idolize Saints whose mechanisms surpass mine

as they bellow tunes of forgotten prose in attempt to cleanse me


as a meager cherub.

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