Room 119

Ambers light half my night,
spirits lashed consume
Sunday service,
collection tin bankrupt
bar a few pennies, heaven
teasing the misguided notion
of eternity

Gideon sells the lie,
a warrior in God’s name
placed with every sordid interlude
upon the king in room 119,
judged
I grasp the final gasp

Honour quelled with vanity
broken, drowned
as the rolling blanket draws me in,
tears hung by a thread spliced
finely cut, my cross to bear, disdain
tongue draped and dry
upon the desert, each halo alight.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw