A Monument to God
In a field pledged
To Mammon.
Its slender, prickly, gargoyled towers dwarfed by
Its sparkling steel and glass monolithic neighbors.
But still, it held its own. The elegant Gothic beauty
Gave the lie to its fellows who devoutly worshipped
At the Altar called Functionality.
Inside, slits of sunlight pierced
The Stained Glass Windows
Casting the cavernous,
Holy Water-scented
Interior in a hint
Of Ethereal Mist.
Gigantic, massively silent,
Icons to Fallen Saints said
To Rise and Live Forever
lined the sculpted
Sacred Walls.
As the Faithful, many kneeling
All murmuring and fitfully
Sign of the Crossing
Bowed their heads
The Prelate entered in Billowing, Shimmering Vestments
Mighty Mitre perched atop his head, Golden Staff firmly grasped
A swarm of black and whited Altar Boys Latining and Incensing all around him.
Alone, the Bishop ascended the marbled steps
Of the Mighty Altar with its Stupendous Crucifix
As the organ wailed and the Choir Sang
Like the Army of Angels on Judgment Day.
And so the Shepherd stood Transfixed
Before the Central Icon, and for a moment,
Just a moment, the very thing this mighty edifice
Was meant to stamp out and banish suddenly blossomed.
For one fleeting instant he thought
The thought that escross the mind
Of every man, woman and child
That has mind to think
"Is it really true?
Is He really there?
Does God, in fact, exist?"
And just as quickly as it sprouted
The deadly query withered and was gone,
And he was caught up once again, in the mass.