I admit the church is beautiful,
brick exterior protecting principled
priceless treasures for eucharist
or other drinking games. The bell,
polished and proud, longs for the clouds
and clings to faith it will ascend
high enough one day.
Ornate symbols of Christ – the cross,
the cup – stainless martyrs dying
in veins running red assault the senses
and scream of deaths, endings
brought from passion and bought
for Christian decoration.
What heaven awaits the haggard,
hungry for purpose or meaning?
What hope rings in these ears,
pulsing with the prospect
of an afterlife of ashes to ashes?
What worship befalls the weary,
the hesitant and the damned?
I lack the faith to answer,
nor can I stop the questions.