Under the old Moon,
Music descends
in temples of hysteria,
As their stones shatter,
The absence of blossoms
in the churchyard
marks their fate.
The grey and cloudy sky
and indistinct Sun,
Display no concern,
Come the morrow.
Praises echo to the sands,
For their faith encourages the abyss,
Days of reckoning;
One, two, three;
The accountant devises sanctuary,
Yet closed to those
who they claim to hold.
But that abyss,
Of children’s bloodied tears;
They sang their reasons on Sunday,
Blindly walking the same footsteps,
(Though not intending harm)
Maim the consciousness
with contradictions.
Either way,
The accountant rejoices.
Photo: John Gee
