Confession in wedding garb
We engage ourselves to the void with each
finger, we grope for the road, which
leads somewhere with no certain, bright
tambourine-hard certainty. We thread
our arms to the music, we listen
to the secrecy, wed, enwreathed.
The drumhead of our thrumming hearts, powerfully counting,
may burst at any moment.
And the only moment, when even all that, too, has
not been achieved, will be known by the
font, by the strength of a single sprinkled
drop, and completely unaware
we accept the piercing pain in our ribs
the price of verity. The bloody moment
of the precious thorned crown.