A poem,
like a cathedral, holds secrets.
Words hover against stained glass
and slither through pews.
The priest, a poet, chooses each word
carefully, but not everyone listens.
Some hear only the silence,
words flapping like birds
against the insides of heads,
the shadowed corners of a church
long after Sunday.
like a cathedral, holds secrets.
Words hover against stained glass
and slither through pews.
The priest, a poet, chooses each word
carefully, but not everyone listens.
Some hear only the silence,
words flapping like birds
against the insides of heads,
the shadowed corners of a church
long after Sunday.