Devout by Claire T. Feild

Tallying fervent spirits he
  cannot swing,
For in his childhood he
  burned the face
  of his twin in faith,
  the smell of matches
  still crawling through
  his epidermis.
Forgiveness yanks and then
  sweeps his soul’s
  scars into a cavern,
His soul, bathed white as
  clam chowder,
His soul, freed from the
  soup’s lumps,
  the bathetic in life
  strewn away from
  his soul now intent
  on serving the poor.