Baptized by Fire

the confessional stood as a sentinel,

the virtue of a church standing strong,

until the day it was bloodied by the hands

of a scorched man with a hymn on his lips.

he believed he would avoid the gates

of an eternal hell if only he fell to his knees

and graced the foot of a priest with a kiss

upon his feet, asking for mercy above all.

but the living plane was not done with him yet,

at least as the people poured in and screamed,

asking for justice and peace and retribution

all from the hands of a broken system triumphant.

“don’t ask for forgiveness,” said the priest

as he looked down with pity and revulsion,

oil anointing the begging man’s head,

until a match was lit in hand, ready to drop.

“please,” the man said, but there were no words

the priest could give to soothe the disgrace

that kneeled before him as if he were God himself—

and the flame fell with a burst of light, a final cleansing.