Cathderal of Glass

broken

A heavy chest, and a pounding heart. 

My chest aches and my ribs crack.

A pumping swollen organ throbs

in its weary cavity. Pumping in and out

thick blood slurs through my veins: spilling

broken poetry at torn flesh. My heart aches

for you. Pushing against my lungs breath runs

short. Cracking my ribs, pain fills the court. 

Countless thorns and fallen rose petals. 

Snow White skin dripping with blood

begins to look like religion: and I would 

endure all this to see your eternal grace. 

Walk through the empty churches and find

my body pressed against the altar. Find me

looking up to the angels; find me marvelling

at their eternal glory. My blood runs smooth

onto the stone floor. My veins are rendered 

hollow. That pumping organ that ached before

now diminishes all pain. No more throbbing

heat pressing against my bare lungs. Fire breathes

in slow, and sits in my chest like a fallen ashen

memory. Dust away the smoke and you will find

keen blue lungs, wrapping my numb heart in icy

sheets of salvation.

Find me at the altar: split with war and ambition.

Find me with blood stained tears and blood stained

hands. Cold stone and splintered bone are smeared

and draped with my crimson life. Broken crowns 

and torn fabric cascade the halls: leaving an 

apparition of what once was. Did it hurt you to 

see all this? All this pain and suffering at the 

hand of your bloody grace? Did you ever shriek in 

agony when you held my seemingly lifeless body

in your corrupt arms? For I will never fly with the 

white doves of hymns: I bled through that life long

ago. Everything, everything was too late. Too late

for penance; too late for love; too late for old sores

and new wounds to heal. Time but all ran out, and 

I was left and found here. My body is broken with 

hollow words of forgiveness, and torn in two by

religion and your grace. Time but all ran out.

Minutes melted into years; and when the minutes 

came up short, we were left with seconds. Seconds

to feel my heart throb. Seconds for my veins to run

dry. Seconds for my bones to crack, and seconds

to come face to face with death. He extended his

ghastly hand out for mine. I looked back at my 

lifeless body; it was pale, cracked, and wet with 

blood on the altar. I looked back to death and 

felt a frost bitten tear slide down my pale cheek. 

He took my icy hand in his. I told him that I was

not ready. He cracked a wicked smile and crooked

his head, and from under his dark hood I saw the 

eyes and soul of death: "No one is.".