I’m the crack in the stained glass, saint with a switchblade—
blessings drip red on my Timbs, still I tread on the pulpit.
Sunday service full of serpents, I speak in tongues of trip-wire—
amen, then I aim, let the psalm clip hum like a choir.
Crown of thorns? I sold it, flipped it, bought my mama a tower—
now heaven’s gate got a bouncer and he checking my power.
Kneel? I did, till the soil tasted copper and greed—
rose up, shoes untied, footprints still reading “God bleed.”