The pallid thing tans in unusual progression The corpse crucified against the wall, Lit from the inside, its skin turns Glowing gold, tarnished copper, shifting between metallic hues The burning body bursts into a roar Long since rotted Nearing total disintegration As it screams and flails, its rotting limbs fall apart Collapsing on the floor in a quiet thud Freedom through entropy, a black comedy Only its corroded wrists are left upon the immaterial crucifix And its writhing body, plucked of its wings, Lies in a pool of sacred viscera Convulsing and bleeding from every wound, The rotten thing lurches forth towards the congregation Meet the face of your thrice-born God A lipless, eyeless, infantile animal With gnashing teeth that most apparently desire flesh And the spattering of hot blood upon its throat “Conquer to devour” it seems to say, Or is that only the voice of the angels locking the church doors?