The Stylite

On the spire stands the Stylite Who -for thirty years alone- Has in his ascetic fervor, Severed joint from bone. One legged he stands, and arms held high, Deaf to the world beneath. The Stylite clenches closed his mind And grasps it in his teeth. Held bound by cords of Providence That have grown into his soul, The Stylite voids himself of thoughts That circumspect his role. His role is humble, straight and true, Though ravaged he may be. As wind and rain break down his flesh And strip him by degree. In long past time, men near and far Sought out his wise decrees. Below him now, so few remain To tender to his needs. For one last time, he clears his mind, And purges lust and sin. He shores the wall that guards the light And purity within. The cords have snapped! Old limbs give way Through desperate, chilling calls. He sought to separate himself, But to the earth he falls.