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The roots of faith corrode

In the church on the island

The heart of God’s betrothed

Is blackened from within

The reach of Heaven’s light

Scrapes against locked doors

Where Christ himself is knocking

Yet none will let him in

The preacher counts

His words with loathing

As a debtor

Pays his due

With each verse

In the sermon

A year’s wage

On the heart~

Another day relents

And solitude is calling

The preacher’s feet take him

Down the mountainside

Across the shore he sees

A man dressed for mourning

Yet he smiles wide

As if dawn is trapped within

He stands alone

On shores of time

Each grain of sand

Another lie

“This flock of fools

Will stand behind

Any sorry creature

With cross in hand!”

In hand!

The Mourner beckons hither

To swear an oath sublime

“Your life thus far is but deceit

So join me, Lord of Flies!”

The Preacher weeps

His tortured mind

Ne’er envisioned

Damnation’s chime

And yet he reaches

For Satan’s hand

So that he may

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