Glossolalia in Worship in Vlad’s Chapel

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

When you admit perfection to your guts,

You run the risk of ruin.  That black hair,

Its curls inside your heart, juts out and gluts

Your chance for love.  That beauty will not spare

You.  It, unhinged there, struts and shuts the gate

To other lesser hopes.  It cuts the only chance

For other passions as its shifts God’s spate

Of earthquakes when your unsuspecting glance

Takes in the falling glory down the nape

Of Sabbath neck, estranging other sight.

What used to be religion turns to gape

Of lust where innocence flops down like blight.

  Those hands lift up towards Christ but heavens fail

    Against black gloss. Each utter curl impales.

~ Phillip Whidden