Imagined Sins

Before I go mad from imagined sins
I want to tear you out of my heart and
Process you high through Holy Thursday’s streets,
My brazen painted saint, marching barefoot,
(O happy martyr) over blood red thorns
Of roses children shower before us,
Where flailing men weep in their jealous grief,
Devout women pull shawls over their heads,
Cross themselves, murmur soft prayers over us.

Only by this can I hope to be saved
From an eternal burning down below.