On the death of God and the ghosts of a haunted sacristy

A prose poem for today. The weather is the pallor of death and the absence of faith. It has sprung a wet rain cloud, yet this morning the trees wore their usual vestments of Spring, like winter never happened at all.

I remember a chapel from childhood …

Is the Chapel a cloister of the ghosts of empty confessionals? Freud never haunted this place nor hailed Mary. A sad tree now stands guard over a barred window. Is it to keep them in or shut them out? They line up at the door of the sacristy, like aspiring altar boys and girls for a service to one dripping out dregs of lifeblood, nailed solely by human pathology. They will speak of resurrection as consolation, like they always do, a placebo of worded liturgies surviving the soul. The creed to make you know, the creed to make you feel, the creed to make you see  is a blueprint for astro-archaeology. In the demise of the planet and of religion, they would excavate the gospels in scrolls, in the dead of space. Do we truly believe in the holy trinity of love, faith and meaning? Then God must be surely dying.

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