The soul was split the spirit would laugh, part captured by ghosts; to eat Passion, to drink Eucharist, to live to die, to die to live, curious about Christ. Believing in flying, like innocence was raffled off, if to touch three grand that night—if to unlock the Paraclete. To stand closer, indwelling force, blessed in the curse. Losing souls, bleeding by phantoms, leaning into an ideal, like knowing he walked, knowing he was nailed, believing without seeing, to assert the resurrection. Sunday morning, asking for clarity, erudite madness, liquor and doubts, moving through impermanence. Never knew it was rough, just a simple belief, half the world dying; low toned, grace enthused, works—not a big problem … similarities, darkness verses light, fire as an inner proof—terrified, nearing invisibility, one palm opening skies.
