Faithdrunk, with hands like a pop-up book of bones, tendons and viscera;

Holding on.
Praying that this wire of acceptance, hardwon and sharp as silver linings,
Is the conductor necessary;
Turning this thermonuclear altar into a perpetual motion machine.
Building something sacred amongst our bells;
Building something to outlast god.
 
Something not unlike normalcy, just barely on the tip of my tongue,
Staining my teeth and lips like underripe strawberry juice;
Like the aching maw of god, when he’s done with my half calcified soul.
Before my brain succumbs to the quiet,
I curse the designer of this sick, sick autophage mechanism.