Balthial

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