Salvation was too High to Come in through the Door

I dream of a surplice and plastic plants trapped
inside curtains covered by electric lamps.
There the room grows big with its ghosts and sleeps.

Who will gently open the door
into where i debone my fears
with a bread knife sits outside and puffs
the grey and hollow delirium.

He slips down his rosary beads
with old worries in tow, heaved by the surf
and spit of the ruin drifting him
towards his helpless addiction.

I dream of high rise shadows towering over an old
rainfall chiselled chapel full of this discoloured angel
and saints in their semi-automatic gloom.

The chapel closes its fist around the lit altar
and the wings that arrive first are almost threadbare
ruins from their addiction to the candle flame.

But it is this man at the backseat
of the dream that troubles me,
his eyes wide as a lake trapped in moonbeams.

I seem to be waiting for him to open his milk
bone to its crimson blossoming and dip me
into it in round wafers so I can taste his version of heaven.

But he is still smoking the reefer
to its blue veined nipple and the sweetness
is still stained with all that nails digging in his wrists.

By the time he withdraws back into his humanity
the candles have picked their rose thorns
from the discoloured clot and made a dark room
for my soul in an exhale so deep
he vomits from the serenity of it all.

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📸: Tree in monochrome