Day twelve, a milestone along a biblical ruler,

measuring holiness by the God within me.

No matter the religious yards or metric meters,

on the scale of the apostles, I mostly disagree.

Long-distance communication, the world gets smarter,

super glue and duct tape instead of fire forced iron nails.

The cross replaced by compromising screenshots,

no gladiator arena but pictures of repulsive bloody details.

Never ready for the truth, the masses so easy to deceive,

by velvet robes with gold thread stitched symbols of supremacy.

For I am seen as the one with a dysfunctional soul and bouncing heart, 

who refuses to sweep away the warnings for populist baptistery.

Perfervid reliving of cloudy sagas and historic fairytales,

in theaters designed for modern time interpretations.

No scruples in the process of reviving the same old fears,

thrown back in times of cruel rituals and religious damnations.

Getting used to temporarily going solo,

eighty-eight days feels better than ninety-nine.

Although there will be that triple crowing of a rooster,

I will recognize any traitor, the internal voices are mine.

*****