Punishéd

Was it the fresh-faced acolyte preening into baptismal water

Ignoring candle wick?

An envious sunbeam spearing through chipped glass?

A single ember swept from altar fire bellowed into fullness,

Destruction by heretic wind?

We search for answers in the scarred ruins,

Turn imploring faces from one to another,

All equally as empty as ourselves.

We beg the passive smoky sky

 To send affirmation that godhead still stands.

 Words cannot measure our desolation.

Can’t this enough be enough now?

The mountain of clouds rumbles. Like pewter crashing,

Three norns spew white gasps of ash.

 Jacob’s Ladder quivers, falters,

And falls.

99 words