These beads worn
from regret, turn
between woe and will,
feel the pulse of guilt.
I, who have blasphemed,
down the sacraments
and wallow in the oil.
This frock soiled,
hides the length
of my shame.
A carnal unquenchable thirst
cheapens the faith
with conditional love.
While boys with sticky thighs
kneel powerless and mute,
I feel the tightening threads
of this unholy noose.
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