His Sanctuary

 

 

His Sanctuary

His Sanctuary

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He sits this tired man and waits

in falling snow, for doors of

church to open and let him in

from bitter cold and blowing

snow that curse the night

and cast dark shadows across

his sacred doors of sanctuary.

 

On the edge of life, he slowly

Drags his battered soul across

the marble floor of Notre Dame

while angels sing Silent Night.

 

Wearing clothes from

beggars bargain bin and

tainted on his breath, from

rubbing alcohol mixed with

cheap wine, he curses

his leather worn frowns of

wrinkles earned and beaten

on his brow from falls of

weathered time.

 

Bent and shallow is his gait

and gasping breath from burnt

out lungs of nicotine and chew,

coughing blood, he wipes away

the spittle with the backside

of his hand while wheezing, he

enters this sanctuary of priestly

tombs this trembling silent night,

 

With both hands cupped, he reaches

out to feel the warmth from candles

glow, and lights a wick in silent prayer

for those he left so many years ago.

 

This shattered man on bended knee

prays to God and whispers quiet words

of thankfulness, crying quietly while angels

draw him close with outstretched wings

pointing to heaven’s gate.

 

He slowly lifts his head and wipes

the tears from his canvas face

while choirs sing another Silent Night.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2010. All Rights Reserved


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