Friday, January 19, 2007

Martyr


The massed forces of Man at his most foul—the brazen, the proud, the faithless frauds—descend from every corner. Within, the center withstands the crush of fear. And lo! Still the light shines! Within its cloister, even within the airless space left behind after defiance’s flame has flickered, Truth still glows. It fills its chamber as the censer fills a cathedral.

We imagine the weight of heathen ways, of idols made of brass, in the forms arrayed around the heart of this figure. The shapes—sickeningly corporeal (carnal, even)—gather like bubbles in oil. They choke, they sting, they press and twist. As long as truths still prove themselves in every breath, all is for naught.

The faithless cannot stop a faithful heart.

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