Young Writers Society

The Haunted Cathedral

In the cobwebbed throat of the church’s organ,
Our story is stuck, where no fingers could type
Those dissonant chords into the bruised words
Of endearment that once filled the vaults of our famished spirits.

This is an abandoned cathedral that blesses no one’s name.
The dust-bearded statuary do not remember things
That tenanted other times; there is no sound,
No scent to turn the grey head of memory.
There is nothing to stain the white vestment of this peace.

When the sunshine grows stale upon the land,
The cathedral’s grave-shaped mouth awaits our faith,
And the iridescent hopes of mosaics pierce through dust
And fall onto the aging heads of the statuary.

Before these ghosts of light haunted the absented aisles,
One would have never understood how dust
Quickly inhabits the sacred places where men once were.