A church, colored crimson
A loud cacophony of bells—how they echo,
Reminding sinners of their crippling malice, malaise.
They run, ubiquitous
Heavy steps against cobblestone.
At the steps, a vile beast spews tirade, turning most away.
Barbarians, some are –
Scrambling still towards the door,
Banging fists against ornate red fir in vindication.
Among them, one breaks through
A heathen – a pillar of bleached salt
An apostate of God, with bloodied wrists – a renegade.
There is pain in her voice,
Wisdom and ignorance, still,
She calls out to Him, from her birthplace, God’s forgotten child.
“What is my name?” she asks,
Though God does not answer.
There is silence, before his loved progenies step forward.
“My name?” she asks once more,
Intransigent, adamantine.
A Bishop approaches, towering over the pale pawn.
His skin is but plastic,
Shining dark in clear, brilliant light.
His mouth does not move as he speaks lurid non sequiturs.
“You are my little pawn,
God’s plan for you is boundless,
For you can help us prevent Armageddon! Be not brusque –
As you are but a child.
Receive your role with bravado –
A prodigal daughter you will be, should you accept me!”
She had come to seek God,
Not ebullient words of man.
If God would not accept this meeting, she would just leave again.
“I am here,” just in time,
The voice of our spectral maker,
Ostentatious and suave, echoing against chapel walls.
“Your creator am I,
And he, I shall forever be –
Your God. Your destiny. He who wrote this very story,”
A sea of believers,
Becoming dilapidated,
Steep frowns and bloodshot eyes, disapproval on their faces.
“You have no single name,
For you are the whole world, as all –
You are the moon, queen of the sea and beacon in the night.
You are no single soul,
For you are everything, my all –
You are the sun, king of warmth and light, giver of all life.
You are no single thing,
You are the world, my creation –
You are the deep sea, core pelagic, open waters – waves.
You are no single mass,
You are one with my universe –
You are the coral reefs, alive, you’re refuge for the meek.”
The Bishop’s ears, bleeding.
His robe, disheveled. Eyes, teary.
Rage apparent as his faux equanimity fades.
The edge of his sword, bronze,
Pressed against her gold-plated neck.
Pushing down ever harder, drawing no droplets of blood.
Her wrists had been drained, now—
Filled back with prized liquid metals.
The voice she had alleged as God was nothing but her own.
Her own god, she now was,
Decider of her own providence.
She left the church, never to look back, for she could no longer be
A pillar of salt.