Beyond The Wall
The spire towering above, and the cross— they no longer meet the eye with ease. Soaked in the shame of sins past, present, and countless still to come, committed in the name of "Holiness," O crimson cross, you dare not show your face while the sun still shines. Not with Your blood, but with the blood and tears of those You longed to save— those frail ones to whom You gave vision and mercy— you are stained, O cross. The days when the first place of life was truth—are gone. Gone are the dreams, the philosophy, the fervor. What remains is a hollow shell, lodged within the fourth, the fifth place of life— fitted to myths long drawn, and crude prophecies patched together. Will He come when even the final sliver of truth can no longer lift its head? The spire towering above, and the cross— even scouring the sky, they cannot be found. And in the nakedness left behind by all that has been stripped in the name of “Reason,” O white cross, you do not return—even af...