A dedication to my lover.
If you ask me my religion,
imagine Tesla and the pigeon.
It stands against blind reason;
defying gods and their legion.
Kissing the dead is no better
than touching the flesh of my lover.
To him, I have no need to cower.
All for him, I’m tender and bolder.
His voice, not silence but sound,
urging my knees to the ground.
I worship hard, pound after pound;
Twenty-four seven, all year round.
The gods can watch in envy,
as my lover shoots warm sea.
I can be, to his fancy;
Not a single doubt in me.
His name, the end to my prayer.
Holy hands, make my skin shiver.
Treat me like a saint, a sinner.
Take my body as an endeavor.
For my lover’s my religion.
My bread, my wine, my beacon.
And on him, my life lies on.
For with him, reigns free reason.