Poetry in Narrative.

The Living Pew.

The Living Pew.

Pushing aside societies eye, I thought outside the norm.

Stirred up controversy, like clouds churning round a storm.

Placed myself into believing, none could judge but one;

how wrong I must've been, as a full recollections sums.

Gave it all to a sleeping cur but, those memories rang superb;

and when I spoke, I was astonished at what he heard.

My tongues let go of every feeling I hid and held so firm,

while the maker stood listening, as if there were more to be learned.

Groped for silence that wouldn't come, no matter how I tried.

And when it all came to an end, he smiled as I cried.

Every little notion portrayed, was laid upon his weights;

then as my love fell out of me, he opened up the gates.

"Come with me," and led the way past the hushed crowd.

"You spoke well, as they would not. They were silent yet, loud."

Over and under, upside down, things began to turn;

and when I stood again he pointed, "Now you can begin to learn."

The place was larger than my mind could fathom, I simply couldn't see;

that there were others as well, standing right alongside his tree.

They waved and praised me for not speaking with a forked tongue;

although I knew them all, they were thoughtful, and still quiet young.

To the day he saved every one of those sinners that didn't hold reproach;

and I myself, a sinner too, felt no shame as they approached.

My words were clear as was my soul, after speaking what I knew;

while those outside never felt the joy in speaking from within the living pew.

A.o.R.