in the congregation of the flesh

under the fire
burns the sun
tilting away
from the edge
of nothingness,
singularly
like a rapture
in the eyes
of the beholden.
a glass black
thickness
ruptured at
the center
of the mind,
behind the
leaning sun
where thoughts
no longer grease
the consciousness.
held tight to
the chest
as penance
to the preacher
filled with lies,
disguised
as another
member
of the
flock.
damn us
in our time
of need and feed
on the fatal
flesh
of the fermented
followers,
always giving,
always judging,
always and forever
numb to the necessities
of the living dead,
bound by tribulation
and tears.
only the righteous
can be saved,
and i see no one
of worth
in the congregation.