The smoke forms clouds in his mouth
a mind broken, bleeding, regressed;
a temptation repressed. Lacking control
he seizes the stake
Sun-at-twilight awake
Iniquitous – an underhand stab at his soul.

Begin anew, from the raw bones beneath.
Incinerated skin opens; a cardinal rose
and inside he knows. Alone and forsaken
still burning away,
blackened bones here to stay;
abysmal heart into ashes; brutally awakened.

Lone warrior, against the fear of change,
pen as a sword, with nothing to believe in;
a heathen. A heretic, denying the names –
he, the thought-dancer,
receiving his answers
as numb paroxysms from the flames.

Radical, skeptical, no worshipper here;
a mind absolved of guilt – he contemplates,
and regurgitates. Losing his skin
but no surrender,
a valiant contender
against the retribution for mortal sin.

A test of wills, between Thinker and God,
until fire looms inward, permeates
and asphyxiates. It bestows a glow
on the heartless crowd
satisfied and endowed
with the gift of believing they know.

A gospel of the lack of faith, he preached
Tied to the utopian symbol, he burned.
A lesson learned. As he dies, he ruminates
if some god were real,
I know he would feel
ashamed for the depravity he creates.