The Faith Chronicle: To the March

Church bells ringing through the angel (2)
Veil, shimmering frames as they
Traipse in line, soldiers marching
To the sounds of a funeral,

Carry my body wrapped in satin
And sin, this wooden box of penitence
Rattling with secrets and the essence
Of grief clinging to the pale alabaster

Form shrouded in regret, hoisted on
The shoulders of spirits summoned
By the weeping of the organ,
Never-ending in its sacrificial song,

Light reflected through stained colours
Casting shadows down on the troupe,
The low hum of ravens swooping down
Catching the food of life in their sleek

Metallic lungs, the parade of purgatory
Drumming their own beat of morning,
Forcing daylight from the hollows of the
Earth, tight breath inside this tiny space

The comfort of sleep gathered in strong
Arms, smoothed over blankets and fabric,
Laid over and pushed down into empty
Chest, petals swirling in the endless flow

Of time, vortexes mingled with despair,
Cool chills dripping down the spine,
Vertebrae bending in retaliation,
A sudden stop, and slow descent,

The burning of tethers and ribbons
Cut with finality, misty hazes close
In and tunnels form, a result of the
Fluidity of grace, bowed heads

And whispered words of serenity
Melting these bones to dust and
Ashes, the remnants of existence
Floating into the unknown.

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