(Death) A Bodiless Mind

A poem

In the old church I paint figments of ghosts in glass. My perception grossly imperfect from the glare of pigments surrounding their cherub masks. The sands in writing from nonsensical swells of seas and waves they batter the ram. The doorway to heaven I feel the gates oh the bars they hold right and tight the piercing plan. Of music and wine my mind slowly races and paces the beat of so many faces. The places I'll see before they say I'll go but the going going is gone I feel the rowing. The rocking and tossing in the sea of showing me off to my way, the dark and shadowy grey. Now I fear it's too late to pray.