Christ hangs upon an iron cross.
Christ hangs upon an iron cross.
Rose thorns pierce his temple
As Our Mother Universal stands
Carved in solemn mourning.
Plated in polished brass
She holds her hands outwards from her form.
Below Christ lay in soft decay,
All around his people pray
Wishing away the days in anticipation
Of a heaven promised to them by a dream ideal.
Still as a testament to man the Cathedral stands
Un-piercing but resting gently upon the skyline.
His form dissolves untouched.
Fainted frescos reveal an aging Christ,
Beside angels all around.
As we stood, silent, staring at the relics
Of a fallen age. The Saint lay beneath.
Beyond he seal of the tomb.
Buried beside the head of a king.
Outside the walls of this asylum sanctuary
A confusion of French girls spin the dream entwined.
Tapestries of indecipherable tongues leave me blind
Un-knowing of anything but the tones of the chords
They play upon their lips. Swaying their hips in the
Most feminine of manners – breathing glamour moves
Slow and graceful at its own pace – Holding true a throne of honesty.
poem by David Lacey
Added by Poetry Lover
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