The Pillar

Finalist in the 'Write As Rain 2014' competition

The pillar's roots stand firm in ground, the weight it bore once, gone.
The roof which was once hat on head, is broken, rubble, torn.
The tarnished life of temple strong, and built to last forever.
Is traipsed upon the wall like blood, despite its last endeavour.
Stone that skinned the knees of many, as prayer was sought, not found.
Now cobbled place of spirit's rest, dissevered whole from sound.
Like eve before each Christmas morn', no creature stirred in night.
But man who gasped horrendously, and hollered at the sight.
His collar black, in soot and thread, a shadow, fraught with sin.
His soul becomes consumed with ash, the charcoal taint of skin.
An oil drum, the rusty can, his God does laugh, admire.
The withered priest does pour and strike, and flesh shows stomach's fire.
So flaring bright, in heaven's name, a martyr dies; the killer.
A temple dead, and fire burns, the single, upright pillar.

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