Church steps

Another poem from when I lived briefly in a Civil War era church on the back roads of Tennessee. Quite a dark time. Enjoy.

The screaming of the staircase

Alerting no one 

I have returned home

This building of vacancy 

Once occupied by followers of papacy 

Is now the humble home of the shell of a man

Who sits in the front row

Head in hand

Rays of dusty light spilling onto the floor

The creak of the rusty hinges of the door

Are the only comforts in this place

Whitewashed paint 

The murals of a forgotten saint 

Cling desperately to the walls

The first home of my own

Where the seeds are thrown 

For this poem

Limbs sprouting 

Angels shouting 

Words through my pen

Inspiration through divination 

Though I am not a man of God

I can not helped but be awed

By this holy place

If I ever looked God in the face

I would mention this place

Then ask why I was sent here

I could have come here without experiencing my loss

He could have sent me to this shrine of wood and moss

Without my path being lit

By the burning of my life

Author's Note

Maybe it needs to be cut down or something. I don't really know.

Reviews

[MadisonJR]

I think this is a great poem! You don't need to cut anything. Its perfect the way it is!