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
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