2011-36
I come again, asalways, a skulking
wolf in a blood-
red cape, seeking
sanctuary here, in
the ruined cathedral
of your heart.
I dip my muzzle in
a bone-dry font that's
never known holy water, and
curl, exhausted, before
your empty altar, lulled
by the creak and sway
of shattered stone and
broken mortar and burnt
timber that buttress still
your heart's beat.
Sometimes, held fast
here in the ruins of
your heart, I dream of a
world where I would be
a carpenter, or a
mason or perhaps a
thief. You would have
windows of leaded glass and
finely made silver on the
alter and there would be
limestone and lead over the
vaults to shelter us both.
But I am only a wolf, a
traveler, and besides,
the timbers burned and
the mortar cracked and
the stone shattered
long ago, and there
has never been
holy water in the font.
Poetry by Minhocao
Read 466 times
Written on 2011-07-26 at 20:49
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Rob Graber |
