A family is a Church
With wounded steeples
That reach towards
Luminous rooms.
Hopes for mentioned
Mansions lingering,
Imposed on linen sighs.
Limping congregations
Swaying in prayer
Falling onto others,
Hoping they catch their
Descent.
Half emptied whispers
Of flights not taken,
And lights not forsaken,
And faith unshaken.
Halving behaviors
Shared with wine
And soaked by bread;
Grain of their eyes,
Sight of their hearts.
Center aisle wounds
In their histories,
Carrying processions
Wholly thorough
And sweet.
With each sleep that hearkens
The trembling ceases.
Axis upon axis,
Clinging to the gift of
The other’s burden.
Let us spin in
Concord with our sewn souls.
Let us die in unison
And live in wrestled harmony,
So that we may better know
The Greatest Hymn.
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Hehe, a wounded congregation. Quite an interesting thought -- usually poets make it seem like the congregation is perfect and all holy, when in fact it can be quite the opposite. Especially with some of the singers... gah, how can they make those unholy noises?
The repetition of line structure in some parts, and even the limit thereof, was lovely. You used that very well. You provided great imagery and contrasting of themes, between what is supposedly good and bad. You took it and splashed it onto one canvas and I enjoyed that. The call-to-arms ending was also a great way to end this poem.
Kudos.