Ever since Constantine
We’ve been as sweet as Jesus
And killing with the passion
Of pagans. At some point
In the life of an alcoholic
He has to make a choice:
The story or the bottle.
Words go on as smoothly
As the plaster plasterers
Use to fill in the cracks
Or the artist uses to shape
The acts of a saint
On the façade of a church
Built to repel an attack.
The heart is like a monk
Buried inside the library
Looking for proof
He doesn’t need any proof.
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