I have a love
for pure, 
sentimentally demure
reconnaissance.

The remit to see
after it,

to hear
in sounding 
of waves

a collusion, 
a solicitous infusion -

that pans 
and fans
body of lost faith

and chides monstrous
a prey 
to madness.

Faithless 
fodder 
upturns, 

in holy spells
a wack a mole 
absolute unit 
of hell.

Horror chases me 
down, down

lose it! 
lose it!

Throw 
the damn board 

oh happy dagger,
misericord.

And then 
in a count to ten

resumes again.
Irrepressible 

like a grace 
carrying
tarrying, betide

heavenly toll
rack manger and roll

sanguine 
or shred. 

Goes straight 
to my head.