The lingering aroma
of incense
is the only sense
that has penetrated
the marble and
hard oak of pews,
kneelers and glass
stained technicolor
hues of villians
declared holy through
acts of valor
leading all to death
and fond memory
of what was forgotten
by what was done.
The altar squats
affront, engraved in a
dead tongue
once murmured by pimply
seminarians and still
hidden today
in the mumbles of
men always under
suspicion, never
trusted alone with
our babies, but
without whom we're
doomed in the ex
opere operato of
Augustine's church.
Is there room in the
empty pews
for a found sinner
in search of
himself? Wandering
about, to and fro,
without the maps
drawn-up by
cartographers named
Saint-this and Pope-
that with promises
of reward for playing
along regardless of
whether the map led to
it's promised destination?
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