Epistle Xv - the Resin Incense

(I) In slaughter’s sanguine ink, I wield my quill to etch my tale upon Alexandrian papyrus — an undulating ebb and flow of barbarity (II) My cohesive unity descends into schism, an agitating tumult that presages the clandestine strife between Christ and my corporeal coveting – a sickness bereft of remedy (III) Lo! I am the frail corpus, my open arms welcome death’s stampede (IV) As my heart’s cadence dwindles and the Elders unfold me into a timber ossuary, I breathe once more, my nostrils drawing in eternity’s resin incense