or Shagrath, rather,
that corpse-painted moniker borrowed from Mordor—
I wonder at the gallows you suspend around your neck.
Granted, I understand little of what
swathes you in the Gadarene’s bile, his blood
and pig-predestined hate,
but I posit you grasp this inverted cross
with similar unknowing.
Were that you were there, Stian,
to see the grotesque glory of your purchase,
the body pinned aloft, arms
held in crucifixion’s willful embrace.
Were that you knew our supreme despair
as that gallows plundered us of our God,
drained Him into the Golgothic soil
like your gallons of theatrical aide.
Were that you had touched and seen
the wounds His love had made.
There is no blasphemy in your icon,
despite how severely you may wish it.
When Rome unleashed the spearheads of its teeth
to feed sheep to lions and wolves, to luminate
its alleys with our smouldering macabres,
it was my abject praise
which left me crucified heel over crown;
an unfit vicar of Yeshua’s cross,
of silver-graced olive is no more unholy
than a fish is the sea surrounding it.
In the crossbeam of my martyrdom
you see a stake to bludgeon the Christ,
but I ask you,
what good is the shame of the cross
to those who have conquered its might?
What comfort to you is my worship
when your doubts seethe out of the night?