The line is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven

This line is my religion
These words a holy text
Your tongue a divine healer
Black eyes a sacrament

This line slow consecration
These words the light of love
Your touch a ragged zealot
Lips stained with sacred blood

This line a god unto itself
These words oppressive strife
Your skin a burning effigy
Cracked bones an afterlife

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The line is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven

One thought on “The line is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven

Sock it to me

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