A stalwart silence stalks between pews.
Dust chokes the light and infuses
With the memory of incense.
Heady -- the voice of God echoes in the corners.
Mosaic Mother Mary stares at followers
Taking flesh and blood of her dead-and-risen son.
The pulpit is vast and empty,
As omniscient as the still figures of stone.
The ghost of bodies,
In their ancient priestly garments,
Pace with solemn gravity.
The altar is set with chalices --
Gold encrusted with jewels,
A heavy book lies, leather worn
Pages lined with fatigue,
Yet, it sits center stage
Acting as a sieve for sins and their sinners.
An offering basket stands off to the side,
Green lining greedily gaping
For the cast of a hand.
A basin full of water
Holy for its placement
Waiting to absolve all men.
The grand double doors will not let me in,
And I pass by with a bow of my head.
A/N: This was written in my short story class while we were discussing James Joyce's The Dubliners.
