Priestess

The priestess shuffles down, around

And through the pews, as wax,

marble and glass echo her

Solemn steps, she goes alone by

Candlesight to save not her soul, but

Solely her lord’s abode, where ruin

Creeps like his son writhed, where

Sin does tempt like desert sands,

She goes alone by twilight to visit

Not the idols, but to enshrine her

Father’s altar, the sacrificial mount,

A place not for man but for lamb.

The priestess hobbles, no, she trembles

Not by fear, but in dismay, that which

She beholds is neither flesh nor blood

Of divine passion, it is a desolate

Mantle not a martyr’s halo, and faith

Alone by nightfall cannot redeem

These fallen vaults of grace, without verb

She goes, within her hands she holds,

As dust raises its sickle and let’s fall its

Hammer, she vacuums the holy place

Before great mass carries through those

Doors the indecent rabble of her lord’s

Creation, dust be gone.