An Ode to Muses to Kalliope

Vatican's Cinderella

Sainthood.
It feigns to catch those straying from white veils,
As tenants of brothels are baptized with parched souls.
Ashes do not rain the priest's lungs with fluid,
As the prostitute drinks from his flask.
He reduces the third deadly sin to milk,
While her breasts catch his droplets for a meal.
She was a latex-bound notebook,
Etched with false, cursive, scripture
And he was the quill.
He clasps his palms together with luxury rosaries,
As they both fall to their knees.
The oldest profession, given by man,
Was to a woman.
"A woman, yes, certainly not a lady."
This, he says, as he lashes her spine with twelve incisions,
A surgeon's mastery for each disciple.
Behold, they stand a belt's length apart in tar.
Yet, only one sinks.
He bathes his mud-ridden shoes in holy water,
As her blisters well up with burgundy liquid.
It's judgment day,
Where tragic titles meet their tragic ends.
They stand before the last judge,
The priest, scorned for holding trials in his name,
As an undeserving magistrate.
A kiss, was saved for the madam's scarlet tribulations,
As the supreme grants her the role of a winged officer.
The candlesticks of empty prayers block his pathway to paradise,
As she soars with fair petals sewn into ivory feathers.
No longer does the priest stand on pedestals to prove his height,
For he now lacks an audience's ignorance of illusions.
Only the castle of crosses towers over the bedazzled kingdoms of man,
As the catacombs of skulls await the next cave-in.
This was where the courtesan once fell to the feet of alters,
Where her confessions were given receipts,
While she drank her own salty tears.
The priest drained fountains in the name of baptism,
Absolving himself of sin,
Particular payments of preacher, power, and prudence.
Jurisdiction over man he improvised,
As vainglory rallied task forces to police morality.
Now, flying apparitions of hell pluck the envious green of his eyes
And adorn her with the emeralds of his crucifix,
Paid for, by the tithes of the lonely, solemn, and poor.
While formerly fearing the Tarantella of her vocation,
She may take off her slippers,
Without the penetration of broken glass.