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.