On the other side of the camp

all he could do now was to massage the shadow of their sublime experience;
and with the chilling of each night since that time it was just as if he still could hear voice-overs, muting the feels-so-right from the sermons of dare-not-do wrongs

that night they were fruitful, 
stamen and seed finding their
birthright in fullness of moon rays
as memoriz'd prayers of repentance were whisper'd face down in the pillows of the maidens who press'd youthful
and taut aching veils seal'd tight
inside the confines of a safehouse
where the linens never tell;

but he lov'd her, against the rules
in the shadow of the lesser light,
knowing all the while that soon
he would face them all in chapel
in a robe that hid his secret, and
proclaiming to the promise keepers
"Truly, God is Love." 

 
  © 2006 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserv’d