I stand alone, surrounded,
in a far-off, future year,
by a ruined, cold cathedral;
crumbling testament to fear.

By now, the people will have seen
through those who with them toyed,
and know that Christ lies, maggot-filled,
and heaven's throne is void.

Once, I saw that "House of God",
its roof and stonework sound,
just as a giant crucifix
embedded in the ground.

Embedded also in the skulls
of those it claimed to "cleanse",
and made them them see, once hypnotised,
through "faith's" distorted lens.

The passion play of Christendom,
a tragedy and farce combined;
around frail necks and tightened,
dogma's brutal arms entwined.

To hear my bloody scriptures echo
from "anointed" walls,
is as to see the woodlouse chew
these Christian theatre stalls.

To listen to Hell-nurtured verse
from creaking pulpit,read,
would be to see stand tall and proud
the slowly-rotting dead.

And though this is, as yet, a dream,
I pray to those beneath the ground
that soon it be reality
and precious truth, at last, be found.