icxis

No shit!
I would call the river,
collector of fine memories
settled along it's shores
polluted!

I would comfort priests with laced
oiled swallows, briefly twittering
Hail Marys in Latin,
their bed befouled
within the sinner's sins
they daily arrest
tenaciously at the
confessional,
an atrocious weight
they devote to carry
on their shoulders,
so God may
forgive
them.

Father,
I've sinned.
No shit!
the river carries on
it's irrelevance becoming
more and more
rosaries of
relevance
as
bed widens
upstream, a far
sight.

Ocean,
so real!
Hope of washing
the delivery of spoiled
souls
with salt and seaweeds
abundantly fed by
influxes

Mater,
forgive us!
We're ready for redemption.

In it's sanctuary
the sea will morn
for the priests,
for the sinners,
half way between
faith and fate,
water and fire
they shall sublimate into
purgatory like
space
awaiting to descend
and preempt the
cycle
or ascend and
become
icxis.