Purpose

She, born of the forge and cast from the pyre,
The fire of her birth soon vanished to iron,
Cold and lifeless, but still with a purpose
And then, from the worthless womb of coals
She falls.

Her sisters, countless in their tumble
Collide and stumble to the four corners
Of the earth.  Rapidly consumed
Exhumed for a thousand years
Or perhaps two…

Here she, in the wood of the punished
Blemished the leather that still bears
Her name.
And the pain that she drove
Into carvings of old grow mould
From the sacrifice of divinity flesh.
And as time burns away it leaves nothing
But her rust in the dust of the world,
Unfurled in a shroud that covered
The man of men.

But she, who knew nothing of hate
Was but fates victim as her captors abused her,
Turned her and used her to decimate;
Eradicate, annihilate the son of the stars,
As the hammer of fear drove her in once, again,
And again,
And again.

What was left?  But a crack in the earth
And a splintered cross in the dirt,
As the holders of sceptres washed the blood
From their hands at the feet
Where the forsaken stands
As they turn and dissolve in the sands.

But she stayed and she tightened her grip
And relieved he (who shall not be named)
From the pain infused by the vanity
Of men.
But do not blame her, for she simply did
What she was so effortlessly created
To do.

And in the cremated remains
Of the ashes of history,
Scorched by the hate of men,
Here you’ll find her just lying,
Sitting so flawlessly;
Silently waiting to have purpose again,
And again,
And again.

 

creationdeathinnocentpoempunishmentPurpose

◄ Hitman

Forever Let This Place Here Be ►

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