As your bloodied head now hangs,
fallen low as the setting sun
casts its final daylight towards you,
we, who have heard your last cry heavenward,
flee into our darkness.
On our turning away, instead of you,
we look upon dimmed reflections of ourselves,
as we fail to claim your last cry was breathed toward us—
your own eyes looking upon your own mutilated corpse.
To whom can we turn as a full moon rises?
The sanctuary veil is torn, and in our lunacy
we put to siege the walls and gates
around our own treasury.
Our gaurd tower falls confusing our tongues,
And the stones of our steps are shaken about your cornerstone–-
only your solitary remaining guard holds your keys
though we, the center that holds not, expose the keyhole to decentralizing your throne room.
Peering through the keyhole, you show us a sanctuary,
once constructed by builders after the Heart of the New Jerusalem,
reduced to resembling the Temple, invaded by Pompey Magnus,
and his image erected to command his sacrifice
over the Holy of Holies for CXXXIII years–then no more.
This face consumed by its own body–our veinglorious image
of a reflection of Narcissus in denial of the Narcissus lost in it…
Is this a frenzy of feeding on ourselves?
Is this blood spilled? Our staining of our fibers undergirding our inebriated Bacchanalia?
Our fuciform gyri steal our contemplation of the Mysteries.
Our search for your face unveils
we nameless thieves seated on your left, instead.
Pride makes man’s worship curvatus in se.
A vigil in the wilderness cries, “Make straight the way!”