Turning On The Wasp

 
From the gallows I emerge
dwarfed by fading grace,
pawing at the earth's cruel conscience,
unwilling, at first, to counter
the swarming
wasps viciously sucking
at my fragile dome,
needling my eyes with venomous
stout, eager to brake from the chains
of indulgence, I soon turn
on the wasp
and pin it's chocking greed
to a bloody cross stained with sin,
draining the heathen
of its flaming footprints
as it sinks deep into
the oiled earth, wingless
and diseased.