I stood beneath the iron sky,
where angels rust and silence is taxed.
Dust in my throat,
ash on my tongue,
I spoke no heresy—only honesty.

They lined up with open ledgers,
teeth bared in bureaucratic prayer,
demanding I pay for sins
I inherited and never spent.

I’ve given to Caesar what’s his,
yet he gnaws at me,
asking for God’s share.

My spine bows like a psalm,
torn from the hymnbook of the condemned.
And still, they want more—
my hallelujahs in gold leaf,
my blood pressed into communion wine.

I wear grace like a debt,
heavy as an old robe,
stitched with receipts and regrets.

If salvation comes,
let it not knock—let it break in,
rob the room, and leave me
naked and finally free.

Because holiness was never quiet.
It screamed from nailed wood,
not polished pulpits.

And Caesar, poor soul,
has mistaken control for divinity.
But I know better.
I’ve seen mercy starve
while power feasts.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by KNXRT on Unsplash