No great wonder, that a heart is buried here
for to steal a thousand,
would tax you none
rising arches of shimmering white, reach long
into whisping blue
still-silence is broken, not by you, and
the rushing, babbling waters of your veins;
but by those who yet remain, behind you,
in the aisles of time.
Bushels of corn, your transepts' lines,
prematurely terminate before the skies you once
stretched
to touch.
It is all to do now to dream and look at
Heaven's umbrella,
once upon a vaulted cellar and
a clerestory you tell
so well in ribs and bosses,
once upon more beautiful voices,
that filled your bare bones with song.
Long,
now
since the points were set
in stones;
since chapters were heard
and read, and the breaking of
bread graced your altars with devotional crumbs;
kissed today, by only the sun and steps
of a shiny-backed
black beetle
who is surely, running late...
You wait, as the afternoon's heat abates,
still shelter to offer and solace
to take, for those who will stay beneath
your arcades;
more pieces of hearts are buried;
shadows lengthen,
and time fades away.
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