frankincense becomes the vapour that I savour

In the catacombs I look into cold unwelcoming rooms

the tomb of the priest betrays him

Less ornate as his God seems to hate the ostentatious

even in death and the tomb there's no room for the show off or braggart


but you can
**** in the face of the dreamer, this place is beyond all redemption

the supplicants supperate as
they wait for forgiveness
his highness denies them
and casts out
unholy men.


lesser men might live but there's
no turn or no quarter to give in this dark place,
no warmth to give succour to neither man nor his saviour
we may as well abandon all hope.

the redeeming feature is myself, a sentient creature born of the womb

on these floors in this tomb
I face inwards.