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I Drank His Blood

I Drank His Blood

I Drank His Blood

Swallowed, wiped the corners of my eyes;
gazed up to see a painted ceiling, cherubs dancing, flowers, and painted skies. 
My body leaned on a wooden post as I heard woods, familiar;
spirits filled the church, vibrations felt inside of me as the organist played.

Earlier that morning a paleness grabbed hold and kept me cold, clammy, white – bloodlessness,
as if – life had been sucked out of me, someone said,
“Your skin appears a bit ashen . . .” 
After all, was said and done, in any event, the day went on.

God took up space as I drank his blood; bread stuck to the roof of my mouth. 
The thought of the dragon returned, as a room filled with peace became ungodly,
immoral, drowning the beauty and pulling me from reason
when I stood to pray.

A shade was pulled – back to the fabric of my life –
strong enough to shove you out of my mind, to waterproof my soul,
I was covered by a rainbow – a kaleidoscopic color – one which will not let in another squall,
nor drench my soul by the devil.

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