by Nick Gisburne
The Persecutor, sanctioned by decree
Returns to claim a tithing for the Creed
A retina is all she seeks to see
The blind require a mandatory bleed
She cuts her slice, a quarter of the soul
To her it seems preposterously small
No healing can repair the gaping hole
A sacrifice, the deepest wound of all
A thousand quarter-victims, every day
Surrender stolen fractions of their self
In time, as cold, unfeeling dolls of clay
The faithful sit as trophies on her shelf
I have a quarter, pitiful, but mine
And something else: a knife, to split her spine
