A Sunday Morning

Down the road steeples strain, pointed
Like the cold tines of the graveyard fence.
Thrusting their burdens to the clouds

While Preacher’s roars echo, curling about
The still swaying bells and burning morning mists.
The Congregation stands to sing, eyes closed in spiritual bliss

But on the rooftop remain,
The old druids and woods women,
Impaled with their Gods on the massive holy spear.

Their dried blood lingers, pooled in the great windows
Glowing with the early sun
And staining their tormentors below.

While keen of spirit ghosts, resonates
Down the white spire as the hymn dies.
The smiling flock streams from the wide doors to the smell of crisp meat,

While the priests remain,
To empty the trays and store the sins in the infinite basement

by Styrmwolf
posted on 03/25/2008