The Church

The Church My heart is held in icy grip A biting wind now takes my breath Along the path I struggle and slip Before me dance the wraiths of death. So bleak the church ahead I knew, Grey and spectral in ghastly glow. The tumbled tombs and gnarled yew And drunken headstones covered in snow The lych gate beckons with moonlit chill; A frosty welcome offers me. An ashen light from shuttered grill What solace there can find for me? Along the frosty path I tread In wretched pain and hapless grief. The door creeks open, with deathly dread I step inside, but no relief. Here death pervades the icy air; And now amongst the ghastly flock Whose twisted bodies sit and stare I sit: my memories I try to block. The air is bitter, no warmth I feel, My fingers freeze in icy air; On bench I sit, on floor I kneel No comfort now, I find in prayer I hear the preacher preach, Absolving all by Godly prayer. Of joys eternal he tries to teach But thoughts of joy are dim I swear “O Lord, make haste to help us.” The priest now mutters – a plea indeed “And make thy chosen people joyful.” O, how can joy be so decreed? No joy I find in here displayed, As death pervades the arctic cold; I swear to God in all I prayed That joy for me would ne’er unfold. I join a world, of gruesome dead A nightmare grim in mortal terms The ghoulish priest in fear and dread My life and death he now confirms. I slump and fade; I sigh and then…… No thought, no feeling; I dream no more, I reap the sleep of sinful men; In death I rest and live no more. March 2013