Communion Wine & Doubt
Communion Wine & Doubt
By M. Allshouse
I knelt at the altar—
the sacrifice of my budding self-worth
laid on an altar of your disdain.
Laments of anguish:
my native tongue since birth.
I do not speak in tongues,
only pain wrapped in verse.
Praise be to the Father—
absentee as he may be.
His spiteful hand in my upbringing
shaped the hymns of self-flagellation,
poisoned my mind with communion wine.
Glory be to His name—
forced submission not to be closer to Him,
but to be the sacrificial lamb for sins I haven’t committed—
yet.
Repentance before the fall,
hoping degradation will be my salvation—
a cure-all.
Am I baptized?
Or forcefully drowned?
Wash away the evidence of my purity
beneath waters of ill intent and oppression.
Straight from the womb
into the hands of a shepherd—
‘appointed’ by God
to plant doubt, despite this was how I was conceived.
I kneel at the altar,
no self-worth left to give—
laid on an altar of greed.
Let me offer what I have left:
bitterness and divine wrath,
the brand I’ve borne for my 'sins.'
Laments turned apotheosis ballad—
my soul relearning what I ‘should’ have been taught.
I do not speak in tongues,
and not just my pain is wrapped in verse.
Witness the descent of the Holy Spirit
into the graveyard of my naive notions.
I never connected with ritual,
but ghosts haunt the halls
of the only cathedral I’ve ever known.
Possess my body,
and pray the world remembers me.
Glory be to His name—
a lamb escaping the slaughter,
substituted by the Ram I’ve grown to be—
yet
I’m still expected to repent for sins I never committed,
in hopes that martyrdom will be my salvation—
to shoulder the sins of ancestry.
Am I baptized?
Or forcefully drowned?
Wash away the evidence of my impurity
beneath waters of manipulation and lies.
Straight to the tomb,
into the hands of an angel—
‘appointed’ by God
to reap the doubt of how I was conceived.
Communion Wine & Doubt
By M. Allshouse
I knelt at the altar—
the sacrifice of my budding self-worth
laid on an altar of your disdain.
Laments of anguish:
my native tongue since birth.
I do not speak in tongues,
only pain wrapped in verse.
Praise be to the Father—
absentee as he may be.
His spiteful hand in my upbringing
shaped the hymns of self-flagellation,
poisoned my mind with communion wine.
Glory be to His name—
forced submission not to be closer to Him,
but to be the sacrificial lamb for sins I haven’t committed—
yet.
Repentance before the fall,
hoping degradation will be my salvation—
a cure-all.
Am I baptized?
Or forcefully drowned?
Wash away the evidence of my purity
beneath waters of ill intent and oppression.
Straight from the womb
into the hands of a shepherd—
‘appointed’ by God
to plant doubt, despite this was how I was conceived.
I kneel at the altar,
no self-worth left to give—
laid on an altar of greed.
Let me offer what I have left:
bitterness and divine wrath,
the brand I’ve borne for my 'sins.'
Laments turned apotheosis ballad—
my soul relearning what I ‘should’ have been taught.
I do not speak in tongues,
and not just my pain is wrapped in verse.
Witness the descent of the Holy Spirit
into the graveyard of my naive notions.
I never connected with ritual,
but ghosts haunt the halls
of the only cathedral I’ve ever known.
Possess my body,
and pray the world remembers me.
Glory be to His name—
a lamb escaping the slaughter,
substituted by the Ram I’ve grown to be—
yet
I’m still expected to repent for sins I never committed,
in hopes that martyrdom will be my salvation—
to shoulder the sins of ancestry.
Am I baptized?
Or forcefully drowned?
Wash away the evidence of my impurity
beneath waters of manipulation and lies.
Straight to the tomb,
into the hands of an angel—
‘appointed’ by God
to reap the doubt of how I was conceived.