Ah, with this odd cuff tight about my wrist,
how I do so solemnly wed Thee underneath,
pounding breasts against Your lurid bricks,
as the Messiah forces up my diluted skirt,
fourteen years turned torn into Your howling!
Someday God will take back all of His gifts,
even His blessed checkered baby deep inside,
you’ll hear His faint knocking prior to its life,
then as you’re reaching for a tiny curious finger,
He’s going to crash down that black curtain!
On my own without reigns twisting from above,
relatives breaking mixed angles in recoiled cells,
a third divided for standing, sitting, and on knees,
listening to the bronzed oldies You love to share,
while everyone doesn’t know what they mean!
Drunk and bloated on Your saturated cracker,
Jesus tossing off warped handsprings in my belly,
right before throats are cut to silence the choir,
sending a mangled halo below forming a noose,
patience ends as I vainly fight like it doesn’t exist!
Bye to my little girl and those millions I couldn’t carry,
sad only a few decades until You grasp my heart,
flaunting this mud spittoon for its esteemed photo finish,
smeared across the wall as Your Son pleaded to go,
which I would’ve gladly handed to Him as I sailed past!
Sharwrong's Song 