The Sacking

Each stylite was actually the right leg of a god
Who lost his in a boating accident.
Peg legs, they were known to move in fractured
Fashion, stumbling through the town square
Whenever the urge for a burnt offering strikes.
The men on top, the devoted mystics,
Were simply window washers caught
Without their scaffolding, who also sought
To be the center of attention, and so jumped aboard.
O indiscriminate truth, the townspeople
Moaned, the dole is otherworldly in its gifts.
They were, of course, speaking of what the leg bequeathed
To the town, be it a hole in a roof leaking steam
Or a beanpole from which time could be inferred,
(If one were to chance such measurements)
Before bowing, as was custom, to the deep sleep of worship.
Many fell down the wishing wells that sprung up,
Where only their eyes were visible in the dark.
There they found viewing the stars ideal, plenty of water,
And the many devils tolerable if not good company.