At the apse end of time
all things altered...
fitly framed to form the lie
the eastern gate...
where shadow wall
eclips'd the rising light...
it fell, and fell was it...
upon the ground
as slithering as any snake...
it mote not be
for just a wink...
eternity's blink...
perhap the sun might die
but no...
that happened once
and now was not to be...
thus, scampering melting
fretted on its way...
as fast as it could.
Nice ploy...
the avoidance
pooling in it's place...
gasping once again
from the son's face
sinking in ignominy...
hopeless in the sand
cardinals of fear
and doubt
following...
obscurity...
the pope itself
faltering...
it's wick cut down...
blown out
and that old ghost
were gone...
no more...
her hand of slight...
her pool of dark light
replaced by Glory
all her black dresses
ripp'd away...
her red crowns
rolling in the sand...
her secrets known
as every wart
she kept in hand
hideously controll'd...
and all was out
for now
and evermore...
the witch is dead.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016
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