The streets echoed
with my lonesome footsteps, each step dancing off the cold stone walls of the ancient
cathedral, this place of past praying & of old hymns sent to heaven upon the
voices of the now silent Angels.
I run my icy fingers
over the ivy-kissed & cracked crevasses of weeping stones & I hear their
whisperings, urging me to heed their histories, their stories of past loves, worships
& unforgettable tortures, all in the name of their Lord, their God on high.
The clip-clopping of
a horse-drawn hearse trundles over the ancient cobbles of my even older mind &
the raven dips to greet me in mystic & majestic homage. I wend my way around
the old tombs of moss caressed memories, where only poppies & the dead find
solace & peace in this mist mantled place. As the moon bends to gently stroke
my cheek, I know I am in the place of the saints.
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