Salvation

I know the geography of Sin.
Acquainted with its hillocks and valleys,
copses and crests,
I walk like one with knowledge earned, but not revered,
a soldier with light from a bladed spire
crouching in his looks. I live among dust and dunes,
doorways the eyes of the Outer Darkness,
that beast, that maggot, that germ,
likened to a flaming hearth, but colder,
much colder than that. If I know Sin's geography,
I have not ventured outside it, beyond those borders
where mighty ships fall, deep down into Nothingness,
where saints of the Underworld use their knees to walk,
each face upturned towards an always distant light,
blood staining the bandages which hide their rolling eyes.
I live among the dust and dunes, now outside the doorway-eyes.
I worship in the sun; a less pretentious Icarus.