Flickering flames lick,
tasting the wood,
consuming the faith,
long spoken into walls,

The cross glows molten,
a red that speaks to heat,
falling on the bare back hand,
branding the sigil permanantly.

The finger points to the heavens,
the distance insurmountable,
stars light years removed,
yet the god or God's reside there.

Ashes are all that's left,
no book or page survives,
yet faith continues stubbornly,
I often wonder why.