Ancient of Days

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about the pitfalls and shortcomings of organized religion

Submitted: September 22, 2009

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Submitted: September 22, 2009

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I keep all my words in urns
and scatter out a few ashes now and then
witch doctor style, dropping wax drips
upon the altar, which once upon a time was beating
after the reformation they came and took
all the statues, leaving behind empty crates
and communion became
a wingless mans only flight
a closeted childs only escape

from high in my lighthouse
the steeple is visible, a needle
piercing heavens side
so the ocean can fill up

when they asked me for rose petals
I gave them ground up bones
when they asked me for a sign
I told them that Venus
would transit just long enough
for all of them to get a glimpse
of their missing souls
and also, I reminded them
that ghosts are holy.


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