Sinners in church

All I feel, is the blood underneath.
The red torrent that flows the same.
In a look that turns away.
Reaffirms the shame.
Can we be sinners if inside all is pure?
Skin and bone, flesh from him.
Bread that sticks in my throat.
We are sinners in the house of mother earth.
We are angels beneath the floors of hell.
These tears that fell when the walls collapsed,
and the shadows were expelled.
Are the isotopes of god, realigning in our cells.
So this sin, I am thankful of.
A difference from the past, pulled from Neolithic teeth.
We are sinners and miscreants, all the same under the eyes,
of the blind divine .
Which in turn, makes us holy.

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