Off the street, out of the pubs –
I traced the stained glass story of your deity.
Perched in a pew, any one will do
Therein lie the memories –
Of my youth.
No solace except in sentiment;
No solution, but I tried.
I mixed the colours, pastel, in my mind.
The angels promised heaven,
The “szents”, they sang a song
While Jesus, God, the Holy One,
Sent blessings from Anon.
I sat below, redundant,
Seeming new but still familiar
The light of day it shuffled in
And spoke in the vernacular.
“Like a Morgue” my cynic muttered
“To keep the soul preserved”
Still I’d rather the scent of churches
To any hospital ward.
I left my mind adrift
But nothing tangled,
Nothing bit –
The bait remained unused.
And so with geneflective ritual
I upped and crossed the threshold out…
Yet Solomon’s wife,
A seasoned statue –
Like this I turned that one last time,
The past in ruins, my faith collapsing,
I dared look back
And so am doomed.
