A coat of wax to slick my lips.
Straight backed in a stiff pew.
A reverent look from a reverent man.
A shriveled soul
Staring at the lighted cross
not just to touch the base of
carved to questioning fingers.
I long, instead, to crawl from my skin,
to leave behind the coat of wax
slicking my lips.
I long to float beyond
To drape across as only a ray of light,
translucent for all to know.
More than waxy lips.
Translucent on the cross
for my Lord.