The Feast Of St. Amy Poem by M.C. Bruce

she never really knew her part
she couldn't sing the grandest lie
a martyr, now, to her heart
we let her die.

her spirit struggled, never free
no matter how much we were awed'
tankeray would come to be
her blood of god

her blurry image flickers long
her high-heeled ghost uncertain. lost
Once again she sings the song
her holocaust

dismiss the lioness. our choice:
the hollow babes of silicone.
too disturbing was her voice
of blood and bone.