I did not summon gods from distant skies,
Nor steal their fire to clothe in mortal guise—
I only traced what trembled in your breath,
And found eternity beneath your flesh.
You called it sin, the curve of living grace,
The dusk that lingered softly on a face—
But I have seen how silence learns to sing
When light confesses form to everything.
Do you not feel it stirring in your veins?
That sacred ache no purity restrains?
The pulse that hums beneath all veils of name,
Unmarked by virtue, untouched by shame.
I dipped my hands in colors born of you,
In every shade your hidden longings drew—
No heaven forged, no myth I sought to prove,
Just breath made visible through fearless truth.
If skin can hold the hymn your prayers recite,
Why fear the sanctity of human sight?
If eyes can worship what the soul has known,
Why exile beauty from the flesh it’s grown?
I have not raised the mortal to divine—
I’ve only stripped the blindness from your shrine.
For what you kneel to, distant, undefined,
Has always burned within the human spine.
Come closer now—do not avert your gaze,
There is no blasphemy in how light stays.
The sacred is not locked in realms above,
It blooms wherever something dares to love.
And if my colors scandalize your creed,
Then let them be the heresy you need—
For truth was never chaste, nor beauty mild,
It walks the world, unhidden, fierce, and wild.
So name me sinner, breaker of the pure,
I am the wound no silence can obscure—
The lover not of pigment, form, or art,
But of the god that trembles in your heart.