If she sees fit to pardon the exercise, he begs of her feet to try on his shoes. To imagine, if she will
The church is burning down again,
just as you swore would never come to pass, and so your hands found the knife and ran, red with the renegade, red with your sister, red with your mother, red like the indelible mark on a face playing at unearned scars. You wonder at those hands and ask if they were ever yours at all, ask if after the blades they’ve drawn, the lovers they’ve touched, the lives they’ve lost, who would have them? You’ve learned to force your smiles, and hope for purple runs.
The church is burning down again,
not that angels ever showed their mercy to one of your colour, not that you ever pretended to deserve it, but you’ve seen a Baneslayer’s wings in ardent invulnerable glory beat back even Shivan dragons and if your prayers could reach them in this fateful hour then she’d find you on your knees. You draw, breath catching at the grim realization of a land in the late-game, and sighing, let the demons have you, for the price of concession is too high for a pawn to spare.
The church is burning down again,
though you never asked to be its shepherd. Never asked to know the hopes of a dead race. Never asked to return from beyond Perseus’ cold veil. You dance on the strings of men blinded before blue suns and gods who eat their prophets. You’ve seen the end in all its merry flavours of cathode ray cataclysm. Hell. You took it by the hand and showed it its seat. They’re always saying its going to be a suicide mission. Thing is, you just can’t quite get it to take.
The church is burning down again,
and the fire runs clean through your soul and onto your skin and all that is left is shadow and afterimage. You catch like a cardboard cut-out, because of course, how could you forget, that’s what you fucking are! When they say to don your cardboard mask, you are only too happy to oblige. When the bullets find your cardboard heart, you cherish every hole they’ve given you. And when you cradle her in cardboard hands, you suppress that dull pulse in your phantom tear duct, because you have heard your gods and know they find this funny.