Eager,
as a young hound
panting at a beloved master's heel,
my black, cruel eyes
shining,
upturned towards his trusting face,
the smiling icon,
religion's celebrity
adored throughout the living world.

Once,
I devoted myself,
soul and flesh combined
to my liege,
following in his sand-prints,
my own feet
almost shrunken in his over-sized steps,
the all-knowing giant,
a teacher
to the feeble being, myself.

Years passed sluggishly,
still treading deserts,
my soles bruised,
bleeding rivers from the arches,
I screamed for us to wait
only for a moment.
He turned,
with an expression of stone,
'You'll be a sinner if you stop,
so keep walking,
become God's serving girl'.

Shaking my head,
slowly,
lashes downcast,
I admitted the truth.

'I'd rather become a sinner
than pound sand
any longer,
call me a quitter
if you please,
but I'm done.'