"Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me,”
A child whispers to a cloud,
"Faith is worthless if you’re frightened,
And prayers at judgment aren’t allowed.”
The man on the park bench,
The one that we sneer at,
With mold on his peacoat,
Scars on his hands,
Blood in his eyelashes—
He talks about God
whenever it rains.
The girl by the river,
The one that we leer at,
With lice in her pigtails,
Sores on her lips,
A john in her insides—
She thinks about dying
each time that she’s paid.
I asked them a question,
The one that we fear as
Too painful to ponder,
And both agreed
That the Eternities
Over Oblivions
are the dead man’s hand
In the Old Man’s game.
“Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me,”
A child whispers to the sea,
“Hope is not a weakling’s recourse;
Though awful, it can set you free.”
The woman on the stool,
The one that we pity,
With acid on her breath,
Glass in her eyes,
Yesterday in her spine—
She talks about God
whenever she’s dry.
The boy in the palace,
The one that we envy,
With tears on his velvet,
Gold in his hands,
Tomorrow in his heart—
He thinks about dying
each time that he buys.
I asked them a question,
The one that we say we
Never should brood upon,
And both agreed
That turning Destiny
Against our Damnation
is the Nature’s ploy
When it wants to die.
“Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me,”
A child whispers to the heart,
“Charity is the Devil’s shortcut,
Misuse of love is not that smart.”
The body in the tomb,
The one that we deceived,
With heaven in its past,
Death in its bones,
Rats in its abdomen—
It talks about God
whenever they creep.
The fetus in the womb,
The one that we conceived,
With hell in its future,
Life in its veins,
A thumb between its lips—
It thinks about dying
each time that it sleeps.
I asked them a question,
The one that we perceived
As awful to utter,
And both agreed
That being Begotten
Just to be Forgotten
is the saddest truth
That a heart could reap.
“Jesus, Jesus, sing my virtues;
Love me, and I’ll still forsake you.”
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Submission Name: Virtue Song
