Sunday, August 29, 2010


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. 

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