paralyzing prophecies sleep in the throats of saints who spun the sun while time stood, stood still
the dreaded tears of the spiritual have reduced the angels to rust
who in turn gouged their eyes blind with sharpened halo's.
the sky rained down smoke on their heads and they fled to hide their shame in the shadows of wings.
thieves on the thrones had no trouble wishing slumber under plastic crowns as they mocked deadly desire.
bookshelves of blank pages bibles lined the trophy rooms of third class gods who had no history.
they were messiahs in no ones eyes, not even blinded angelic ones.
they begged to hang on homemade crosses
and spit at the onlookers who bit their tongues behind smiling lips.
and they fled to hide their shame in the shadows of wings.
satisfaction the size of cathedrals blanketed their wounds from view and not a word was said
because we knew that both the mime and the martyr helped us buy the nails.