Yesterday I didn't post. I'm a little disappointed but it did give me more time to work on the piece I'm posting tonight. I was driving at night the other day and passed a church. I am not a particularly religious but the church was beautiful. It stood rather strong, looking somewhat undisturbed. It was inspirational.
Prayers at Rest
Dragging my feet along the stone sidewalk,
nearby a cross stands solemnly
amongst a dirty grey sky,
looking dead in contrast to the dim lights glowing from inside the red glass windows.
Its arms hammered multiple rusty nails
into a wooden post stripped of any gloss stain.
The September winds and rain
won't destroy it's hold
even if the holy symbol starts to waste away,
by termites and spiders
hunting for new holes to sleep in,
a safe haven from the storm.
I don't sleep, I walk.
I know the sounds of the town,
the chime of the chapels clock,
the quiet ticks in between that keep others asleep after bedtime prayer.
I listen to the termites eat their weight in oak,
and see the spiders spin silk to catch the ones that chew themselves full.
The building stands tall, alone looking tired and old.
In need of callused, working hands and new wooden beams.
I slip through the slightly open doors, blow out the table of candles,
and put the church to sleep.