Jeremiah

Idle agencies inside our heads lay claim to our unrepentant souls of being human. An age of subtlety plagues our religious sects, making martyrs out of heretics.
*Laughs*, the burned victims of the Inquisitions would die all over again could they witness, but sadly, we only have their ghosts who can do no more than mourn for all time.

Center on me the pope reborn, with clarity our daily bread becomes our sins until we weep in the darkest corners of our souls…alone and afraid because it’s mortality we mustn’t fear but the eternal thereafter. How helpless we seem to ourselves and our frequent companion reflections.

Divine intervention is a theme we have retained, through the body’s thickness of blood and our holy sacraments. Time has changed but the idea stays the same, and the worshipers of this theological craft consume doubt again in this century, leaving hope where there’s no reason, and faith where there would otherwise be cynicism. I am a man of trust, in my peers, in my God, and in my investitures.

My name is Jeremiah, trained with the sword to wrest upon my enemies should they interfere with my just cause to rise above them, to master a world of adultery and lies. My credence weighs heavily upon my family, to those who are not starved from their deprivations and have retained, bludgeoning their ways unto their imperfect selves.

I crest upon my virtues, and a virtuosity I have drawn whilst diving from my tempest mountain. For without lust I cannot love, and my want for peace cannot wail after all I’ve done, after every vow I’ve made…and thus I digress as my discipline wanes with each passing day…for she has come to suite me, to sue my beliefs and lure my wiles and my unknowing charm, or so she tells me.

I know I’ve fallen, but I cannot stray. I refuse to disgrace, but how I cannot say. Her guile sutures me and my weary soul demands, a sweet caress from her kind and loving hands. She embraces once a demon, a one for all time is damned. From the gates of Heaven I love as much as her, I am always banned.

And now to her I confess my passion, from the fires of my birth slaves my desperate expression, and this blistering ardor she inspires I cannot repress from begging her innocence.

Her blessed whispers take me over the edge, and my body turns, now resting on my boiled wings and I am blissful…tortured by willful hours of desire’s song.

I wrap my cloak to hide what I am, stabbing the horns of mine head through the weak plaster of my blamed trepidation. For out there holds fast for visionaries, even those of my guise suspended. I approach the window and spread my keepsakes, and turn once to admire the beauty lying in my bed. She was the angel sent to save me, and has given me my pride to start what I came to do. And so begins my legacy after one night’s vigor, her savory memory my enchantment.