Catherine Wheel

The crowds sang her fate

50 philosophers, she converted-

But not one, would share her estate

She stood, keeping her eyes on God


Her limbs, wrought in iron wheels

Twisting, scraping, breaking her form

Yet her face revealed-

Only the slightest discomfort


The wheels, knowing their blasphemour task-

Shattered. Leaking the bloody essence

Of the one asked-

To carry out her sentence


With an impatient thud,

An ax ripped her soul in twain.

Her heart pumping, a milky white flood,

That hallowed the ground


This poem is about: 
Our world


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