On and on and on

The inner itch that canít be scratched,
The inner heat that canít be cooled,
The knowing that someone, somewhere knows,
The ache inside that has no words,
The desire to share what canít be shared,
The orbs in church that see all,
The halos that slip with age,
The stained glass that lets in light,
Helping shadows confuse the truth,
The ancient font remembers forgotten names,
Cobwebs where once polished brass shone,
Mary died in 1689, a fine figure of a women,
Her stone worn by stepping church goers,
Her children lay somewhere in the graveyard,
The cool air brings a chill of wonderment,
The stone eyeíd gargoyles know the truth,
The flickering candles, the smell of wax,
The off key organ pipes drone on,
And on and on and on and on.






Poetry by Mick Bean
Read 29 times
Written on 2018-08-08 at 12:06

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