peel yourself from the bed of mistakes, splash warm holy water on your way out and listen to the vicar as he passes on the anecdote for generational mistakes.

you take in the body of christ as he dissolves through your rotten gums, unconsciously itch for a rush of nicotine and on your way you are sent - to preach the lessons taught.

the holy light lashes your face as the wooden doors whip open and you’re barged with right tips reaching over to each forehead swiping down to the left then right cold shoulders and the final chest blow seems to jolt the most.

through the traffic one perseveres glancing at the digital screen that now serves as a reminder of the earliest hope of the day.

feet nailed to the ground you feel stuck. you have crucified yourself under no one else’s supporting verdict and you blame those in passing for believing when you yourself couldn’t.