Nights like these are meant for worship,
As a melancholy moon hides her face.
Luna cannot tell tales when she’s turned a blind eye,
To the desecration of once Godly temple.
We’ll disrobe at the altar and revel in long-forgotten embraces,
And sneak into cellars neglected;
Succumb to our humanity and indulge in the temptations
Uncork stale wine for sermons abandoned.
Drunkenly reprising His lyrics beneath the confessions booth.
But our songs are unlike the chorus, the hymns and the gospels,
No, ours is of the earthly and the human.
We sing a song of blazing red.
Leave lipstick stains on dejected texts,
And empty goblets on rusty organs.
Intoxicated by the human shape; let fingertips
Trace marks on skin from choirmasters too strict.
We’ll pelt the windows with wine corks,
Rainbow shards falling like heaven’s wept, declare justice
For Miss Magdalene as the men turn to dust in the night.
And we’ll kiss in His house, where we supposedly shouldn’t go.
And as we dance in the shattered glass,
Bloody feet raining on stone ground,
We scream the name Iscariot,
Revelling in our ecstasy.