Revolving doors, the words unspoken. The walls alive, their stories ringing litmus true. Valor of the soldier questioned in a time of war.
Now the jury leaves, expressing righteous dignity, scratching planks within their eyes. Without even a moment their deliberation ends, a momentary judgment of a sick and dying man.
Escaping through an iron door, the boulders coming faster now. The healing hands of saints surrender, as they see the head that glows disdain. The looks of disappointment stain the once opaque within these walls.
They bring the stones to shatter the scenes, making flacid sculptures form. Mere fragments remain.
The gospel's wonderous beauty now in pieces on the floor with the demons running rampant in the eyes of unforgiving sons.
Without hesitation there is need for retreat, the walls are crumbling down.
When they see me leave, they soak the bridge in gasoline, and we descend together.