My body finds synchronicity with the ground, in a shrine built on the metaphors of greater artists. I closed my eyes and saw the lamb of God, and was disappointed to learn he was only a seal.
“Come, come,” he says. “Don’t be afraid.”
There’s a spot for me on the altar of death. On the left hand of the Father, by the faces and vases I’ve smashed.
I don’t have to fight. I don’t have to eat. But I learn, there is an admission fee. Reaching in my pockets, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve cried.
Back at square one: I don’t have a nickel to get into Heaven.
Justin’s Note: I appear to be equally as broke, perhaps I’m a sinner.