Cherubim sing atonal hymns in Baroque halls

where even a Demon can be corrupted;

seduced by music

to sway with the crowd,

wrapped in the lovely arms

of sweet harmony.

Incense burns in the sacristy

where even an Angel can be turned;

seduced by dance,

seduced by drumbeat,

gripped in the red hand

of savage dissonance.

 

The enlightened

close ranks and minds,

steal souls, hold hostages,

chant psalms to deaden the screams.

-Opportunists in league with the One

who throws dice with the left hand

while the right gathers lambs

-and the wolves

fresh from the sight of God

hunger for the flesh, the blood,

and any innocent will do.

 

Outside the Cathedral

fathers twist arms,

“Alms for the King.

Alms for the One who need not to ask.”

Mothers carry pictures of Saints

and pray for Holy Orders.

The Sisters and Brothers fall into soft white arms

as the tender mercy closes in.

Markers will serve as reminders

of the cost of secrets

to those who refuse to ask.

 

They steal away, these Sisters and Brothers,

bloodstained, to trade with whores, addicts

-all those compelled to ask.

At the mercy of Angels and Demons,

these Saints of the alleys become Martyrs.

Finding their way to the cross,

without the ransom of thirty pieces,

they join in the murderous ritual.

Can we tell what these dead will inherit?

Is there guilt, damnation,

or the tender mercy and its sweet release?