A poem on religion set centuries in the past. Odd since I'm not a religious person at all. |
She can almost taste the angel’s silence Regretfully removed From the rosy shadow that falls upon the altar His hands freeze outstretched toward the image of Christ Stained yellow and sinless red With the blood of a thousand newborn years The sunset glances through the window Unsurprised to find the slim silver knife Glinting like a legion of sainted souls An arrow pointed toward heaven She would rather cast her blood on the church tiles Than let the pounding on the rosewood door Carry her into the arms of the bloodthirsty They have twisted ropes into shapes of infinity They will squeeze time from her body And send her to a strange place Where witches claim her as one of their own She merges her heart with the legion of souls And the blood spills like rain washing away mud Or sin And she falls upon the altar, seeking the Savior The door is beaten down into dusty tile Lynch mobs enter the church on pounding feet “She is a witch!” and their ropes are looped firm For the noose honors no sanctuary But she has gone into dying sunlight Her form cast blood-red by the stained glass windows Her chest leaking a wound understood by Christ Above their heads flees the shadow of her soul Taken under the influence of Balthial Whose outstretched hands capture the embers of dusk And cast them down without mercy He forgives her for her heathen blood sacrifice A death in exchange for a life long past Each honored at the altar, wholly forgiven Then nothing remains but the silence of the mob The rope held slack to hang the air Beneath the golden vessels of the angel’s eyes Through which looks the Sun of God |