I am shallow and silver. I do not have a heart,
only a flickering light
like a dull candle or a half moon, I reflect it faithfully.
I am truthful, a four-cornered
insignificant little god;
religion bends over me like a drowned sea.
I kneel upon its shore.
I seek the liars on the opposite wall of the church.
Their untruths are a necessity
flowing in scrolls of their ancient text;
flowing from their mouths,
stiffening odors of scriptures,
headstones in hymns;
their crusade unholy, it sanctions heresy.
I am bonewhite in their incoherent darkness,
death to their religion,
patriarchs that should be excommunicated;
I expose their embarrassments,
their adolescence, impotence in their beliefs.
They are a drugged awakening
seeking sacrificial wine
Draining like water into a baptismal.
Each genuflect flees as an ascension
all suffocating like the howling man.
Their eyes are pagan and lifeless
as a penitential exercise,
sinners staring up at their accuser.
A crucifixion, crackling splinters of wood
driven through my artificial limbs;
I am flashing sunlight.
Their followers plunge and toss their heads
like apocalyptic horses;
everyone pointing and shouting.
I struggle to throw down my beliefs at their feet.
A resurrection. I am eating a church wafer
from my nailed hand.
It is absolution.
My mouth speaks the truth; my congregation
embraces by a stain glass window.
The unholy look up from the wall,
a reformation. It is time it was time.