burning insides (this is one more sonnet)

The bible-burning rite leaves me inside,
With pages flying out the windowsill;
There's no place for this golden cross to hide,
So I'll ascend atop the burning hill.

As I draw close, I feel my insides freeze
Against the sour flame of burning books;
The soldiers seem to smile with such great ease;
Pretending is much harder than it looks.

I feel that some small part of me is dead:
I'm folding nothing into pleated squares
While demons crawl and sleep inside my head;
The ship is going down, still spouting flares.

They're burning God beneath a screaming sky.
I fall to ashes as the embers fly.