Daunting drumming, rolling from the city, roars.
Five times denied, the priest hurls his sanguine spear
into a city that sleeping stalls
its victor’s wreath and writhes in cool concern.
But, weapons that are inward turned never fail to maim or burn.
So, watch him flame with extraordinary might
and feel his ash fall upon your city square.
Witness smoke from his charred bones rise up
as a new pontiff condescends his sword.
Watch as dice are cast and mighty arms employed to keep his word;
lest someone comprehend or compromise it.
For it, he’ll level empires; he’ll tear each stone.
For, his glory sought is not of gold,
but a vision kept by lips’ loving fuel.
Welcome to the age of charts and maps– of pater pius’ rule.