Serial Papist On my knees, falling for ages, how strong is this fever of mine, wanting only his embraces. In moments when I can taste it, my lips purple like crushed grapes, whine longing, speech failing to speak this. Uncertain if I can take them, prayers tickle my throat from inside, calling out defiant praises. Allow a serial papist in and he will make victims lie, in blind faith calling for saviours, like what I called him, he said his prophecy was made sweeter by drowning disbelief in kisses, if we would just give our nameless desire a face, ours would collide; on my knees, swallowing jesus, wanting only to be famous. Share:ShareClick to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to share on Skype (Opens in new window)Click to share on Telegram (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) Related June 1, 2016July 11, 2016 Categories: Poetry