384. The Church

The wooden beams stretch upward and on,

Beckoning to heaven,

For God to replace what is gone,

In the hearts of the brethren.

The church pews creak and rattle bones,

Made from dead tree spirits,

As men sing in bitter undertones,

Of the sins on which each sits.

Through angelic stained glass windows,

The winds whip the prostrated dead,

As the sky casts shadows,

Upon each lowered head.

The singers pray to their God,

And the shadows fly away,

In fear of men who sing to God,

To give their sins away;

Then with the final chorused-end,

Heads rise and walk outside,

To the lake where they intend…

To drown their sins inside.

In the waters, dark and deep,

They seek to know God’s grace;

So they lie until they fall asleep,

And awake glimpsing a face.

Their reflections are only their own,

Then back to the church they go,

To walk along the pews and moan,

“There’s no God! There’s no God! We merely reap what we sow!”

K. Aldaya, 1/4/17

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