Conversion

The Missionary

Not solicitation, young one.
Imposition. There is no choice
Now, but when you are
Where you will be,
The truth will enslave you:
You could have been free.

All you need resist is
Your own resistance. And
Perhaps the urge to cry
Out to what you used to know.
What you used to need

Seems irrelevant now. The
Old order turned upside down.
Who would have guessed that
You could derive all you sought
In the universe from something
You have inside you. Pleasure
Inside you. Do not resist
Pleasure as it moves
Inside you.

The Heathen

Here he is again.

I cannot give in.
I cannot let on.
I cannot let him in.

I am a dichotomy:
I need this enslavement;
I need it to be free.

Of course he thinks
I'm some resistant
Heathen, some convert
In that I need to be converted,
But really I feel this
Is a natural inclination.
I just
Need to be reverted
To where I was at creation.

It is the act itself
The penetration,
A blade doing its best
To forge a new wound
Where a permanent ulcer lies,
An infant snake
That does not know
The infinite venom of the new.

I know when to let it go
Inside. But only I know
The one word that has
Nothing to do with any of this:
Conversion.

Silly man, to think he can make
A believer out of a believer.
There is a limit
To the amount of truth
A corrupted being can handle;
I am the first exhibit.