The statue of the sad son of a carpenter
Stares down
Pierced your soul—if you had one to spare
Spires shred the clouds that bleed grey
Sanguine sanctuary of sickly Saints
Light bends round prostrate disciples
Colors unite on the bare floor—to sing silently
Pews groan
Shivering black curtain begs to forgive
Flickering flames light the way
Ragged rituals rasped out by rotting corpses
No longer are they men but like cloth washed too many times
Color has bled away to white and the linen pulls free from
the thread
The altar boys of time slink down aisles
No more song from the choir of melting candles
For the once cheerful organ is like a
Starved child belly swollen
No food (hungry)
No alms (poor)
No salve (wounded)
The Virgin is the Whore of
Babylon striding across the empty
Tomb of lost children
Shuts the door behind her
(No more—no more)
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