Song XXVIII

The temple has fallen
into disrepair
It’s sagging
and short of breath

The clergy are muttering
kind words to themselves
Holy invocations fall leaden
in front of their feet

The pews are all empty
The audience left
and coughs echo
flat on the marble

The temple is greying
into morbid disuse
It’s puffy
and soft in the middle

It never ran swiftly
nor sprung from the bed
And now it just moans
about this ache and that

The incense is burned
and the body is sacrificed
but no one is saved
and no one is blessed

Posted by Jonathan at 02:23 AM, 26 June 2008


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