When he praises the Light
He relies not upon the murmuring chapel’s faith
He is calling upon the Light in his comrade’s eyes
The one that flickers so softly when he falters in combat.
He thanks the Light for the way it shines upon him
With rapturous attention and worshiping words
As it sparks in dark brown eyes underneath a bar’s torchlight
“Come home, come to my arms, come to bed,” it murmurs.
The service before the Service is fingers in his hair,
Quick whispers of prayer and an intensive studying of Solomon’s Song
There is no shame, no masking of intentions as they redress
After all, had that morning not been spent basking in the Light?