That corona garland, worn by few
May be piously brandished by the chosen,
Who by human sleight, in distance gone,
Tried to impress an angry god, with
Good deeds done.
Years have passed, and those left to
Burnish halos above the pews
Grow mute, and faint, inside
The stone façade, outside a fattening Sun,
Bakes the sandstone enclave hard.
The brocade of landscape, drying to brown,
Is burning beyond those sainted gates,
And no one is listening, to those
Pall soaked men that guard
The dying parchments of contrived fate.
I walked among the illuminated passions,
Those paintings lingering in regal blue
And listened to the gathering hate, of those
Outside the walls that shield,
Grow more enraged, in the swelling crowd;
And wait, for the walls to yield.