By Eve Messervy
On the third day God
grew a sacred ember’s seed, now
planted between my lips;
Incense as it sits, to a temple,
Dilapidated, and burnt.
With a single lingered drag
It flares against the shadowed arch
before me,
God’s great glory,
At the organ – a solemn figure bends,
his hands coax life from silent pipes,
a trembling sound that floods my being.
The stained glass windows burn so saintly
reds and blues, that sear my eyes,
The martyrs blood that pours with pride,
I revert to the ground
And taste my sin honed –
a faint rebellion within the sacred.
I walk onwards
And there, my dear friend knelt,
his head curved low in silent prayer,
a figure of aching devotion before me;
my heart aches in its cage.
He lit a candle that burns with God,
I can only wish that for myself one day –
we walk away,
As I couldn’t stay
leaving smoke and prayers
to linger.