OnlyGods
Through silk-curtained corridors where whispers barter faith for gold,
The city’s gods have grown impatient,
drunk on flesh they bought and sold.Power stalks in oxblood shoes,
priests and tycoons with hungry eyes,
To worship in these crimson rooms
where every holy secret dies.They come with contracts, wedding bands,
and polished prayers they never meant,
They tithe in caviar and shame,
then beg for mercy they never sent.Saints with needles in their arms,
prophets trembling in their skin,
Trade salvation for an hour, let the darkness drag them in.Incense
curls from cracked champagne, rosaries are pawned for lust,
And every moan’s a minor key of trust reduced to dust.
Here, guilt is currency—red perfume on wrinkled bills and trembling thighs,
The psalms are whispered in silk sheets,
the hallelujahs rung with lies.He buys her silence, she sells his mask,
the holy water tastes like gin,
Confessions pooled in diamond bowls
where no absolution’s ever been.On leather thrones, the clergy grind,
their collars traded for a leash,
Repentance offered in installments,
and forgiveness sold by the piece.The madam keeps the ledger tight,
inscribes each ache, each grunted need,
Salvation measured by the minute, and every climax scribed as creed.
Downstairs, icons stained by hands that trembled through a hundred nights,
The stained glass glimmers, filmed by phones,
as worship mutates into fights.No saints remain; just power brokers,
dripping sweat and cologne and sin,
While faith is auctioned, virtue gagged,
and holy voices wailing thin.They baptize each other in their hunger,
brands of angels carved in skin,
Trading innocence for access, gospel sealed in latex,
never kin.Indulgence now is ritual—performed
in mirrored walls with practiced ease,
Every gasp a psalm recited, every bruise a new disease.
Outside, the city’s sleeping, sated,
spent by priests who paid for shame,And in the neon afterglow,
OnlyGods erases every name.This is not blasphemy, but commerce; not heresy,
but need—A brothel built of dogma,
where the last commandment’s greed.They pray for touch and pay for hope,
for absolution’s brief caress,Their god is just a number now, their faith an empty,
worn address.There’s no paradise at sunrise,
only rooms to rent and stains to clean—But the holy mouth is open,
and the prayer is always mean.
Here, every secret’s sanctified,
each whore a sacred sign—The gospel’s written in their sweat,
and faith is licked from every line.They built this temple for the lonely,
for the powerful, for the damned—And called it holy, called it love,
but left salvation unexamined.Let the rich come crawling,
let the desperate cry for grace—OnlyGods will take them all,
then sell them mercy’s empty face.And in the final reckoning,
when every lie’s revealed as pain,Their heaven’s built on hunger,
and their paradise is stained.