poem

I am the smallest mouse scratching at the ecclesiastical door. Everywhere there is rain and I’m pretty sure the church itself is compiled of corpses, each one more holy than the next. There is a preacher in the bell tower forecasting the hour of our return. “Hallelujah hallelujah, the bells toll, All is bliss all is bliss.” The layman lies like a dog, curled up around his rotten master. The air is filled with cries for vengeance, with cries for recompense; but Oh the stench, the stench.