What's left, what's gone?

Sharp as a cluster of rocks on the bay,
As rebellious as the bird that flies,
Against the wind, against gravity,
I stood.

I stood up for an ethic like honey;
Bruised and battered, torn and wound round rivalry a number of times.

No hands alone could break down the western flame,
No hands
Nor soul could be purged of its unwavering,
Towering, harassing plumes;
Broken down, washed over all that’s good.

And up stood I.
I stood for a doctrine long forgotten
Breath’s of a religion,
Covered in ashes

What's left, what's gone?