The Cyrenaian Hedonic church

Kneel, child.

Behind the lattice of shadows,
let your breath be the incense that clouds this chamber.

Whisper your sins as wounds you wish touched, secrets trembling to be undone.

Every syllable is a kiss on the dark wood.
Each pause a moan that waits for penance.

Do you not feel how the silence leans close,
pressing like a mouth through the screen,
aching to drink your admission?

Confession is the doorway,
but lust is the hand upon the latch.
What you surrender is not guilt,
but the marrow-deep language of flesh,
desire stripped naked of excuses.

I listen over the pounding blood in my throbbing ears.

I, a priest made heretic by the wet litany of your whispered faults, proclaim:

Blessed are the shameless,
for theirs is the kingdom of touch.

Blessed are the trembling,
for they shall be ravished.

Blessed are the liars,
who dare pretend their lust is sin
when it is salvation.

You bleed truth through your mouth
and I lap it up like wine,
intoxicated by the gospel of your want.

So confess,
not to be cleansed,
but to be marked,
sealed not with ashes,
but with sweat,
with seed,
with the holy ache that sanctifies nothing
and glorifies everything.

Amen.