Exposed

I bored a little peephole in reality, and one eye peered through at religion in various stages of undressing. I mean it began the striptease in the stain-glass glory of pomp and circumstance and good intent. The black dress was long enough to cover any evidence of human, and the white lace could only have been painstakingly knotted by nuns who know nothing of the sexual aspects of commitment. A very rare sect indeed, secluded in the darkest monastery of self denial where a cloistered life consists of nimble fingers and nothing more.

The atmosphere was thick with incense burned to a crisp, bells chiming duty, and masses routinely looking up and bowing down. And it emitted a heavenly music equal to the angel voices of young boys before their balls and voices drop. Boyhood, the masculine symbol of innocence being coached in the belief that god is good, and vice versa. And you can give yourself over to god, and in return he promises on a stack of bibles not to molest you more than once a week, primarily during confession, when one is most vulnerable.

I guess one is most vulnerable because in order to confess one's sins, one must invent sins to confess. Otherwise the devil would have no voice to sing its evil, and life would be just in the living of it.

But when religion strips down to it's "Fruit of the Looms," I could see where you could confuse that with the fruit of the womb.