This steeple runs its blood through my veins,
As the saints of my demise carry my life
Close to their hands and hearts of longing.
I cry in a storm of my suffering, cry in silence—
As the squall who doesn’t believe in its feathers—
While my coursing blood flows its delight.
These busts know not their importance,
No rock could replicate perfection,
Could taunt divinity with duplicate reality.
It is in the essence truth lies,
Solidity in the soul, not the body—
Or lack thereof, for fiction holds a soul—
And it is in the essence I attempt to live.
To leave my own destruction behind,
My own tears away from my weeping—
My own eyes dry in their wetness—
Is what I lead my spirit towards.
I kneel at my own altar,
Wrought of my own conviction and paths,
And I sleep as a gentle hand caresses my heart—
Rocks me to sleep with its soft hypocrisy.
I dream of this steeple, of its mysteries.
This steeple runs its blood through my veins.
