wretched man that he is, in a body
of flesh, before the shrine knelt, sinful in
penitence, knees and face on the floor, with
prayers spilling from lips that swallowed tears
cried in the throes of inner death without
renewal. Sanctification has fled.
The wretch, ephemeral, numb to heaven,
has lost an intimacy, one once held,
with the light, our salvation, Jesus Christ.
He sough heaven, but sunk in his sins, and
the nothingness and every narrative
constructed by the men of god, it leaves
him nauseated and fetid with disgust.
Yet he prayed, bilious and festering,
numb to heaven, sitting among the shards
shards of stained glass, a deity once cast, god
of a ruined window, glass, fearing ruin, tried,
desperately to reassemble shards once
held in adoration, now in contempt,
His faith, once forever, now fled and gone,
he rises from his torment, throwing down
the shards, addled with regret and fear, and
leaves the shards behind to grind to dust while
he seeks hell in solace, in perfection,
will he find, in solace, his damnation?