And picked around the bones of the Creed. These are rough times, bitter times,
Even the tent makers aren’t working.
And Chrysalis, the weaver, and her daughter,
Plunged through the neck
After seven desperate hours on the grill.
Robes are scarce, and Christians share. The word had come down from Phrygia
Through Rabelae, a good man, and steady.
It is worse than the days of Decius.
And some say even Nero, but how could that be,
Garroted to young ash trees,
Lighting the way to the feasting halls? It could be.
The soldier-emperor, son of a slave,
Sharer with his comrades-in-arms.
Now wearing a diadem of pearls.
It could be. Madness? Diocletian?
Or maybe the libellus again. But now the vestibule was ready,
The candles lit, the necks craned
To watch the brilliant hosts go down in glory
And rise again to a new life of light.
I will always be faithful . . .
I will always be faithful . . . The night through the open door
Seemed to Honorarius like a black cocoon.