Catholicism in 2200 AD


The lonely church
At the end of a rocky cliff
Stood as the lighthouse to none
And in those vacant pews
Termites sang hosannas
And dust mites played pipe organs
And the light – the truth
Seemed eclipsed by darkness
And here there were ghosts of saints
Trapped inside plaster

And after the fall of this bastion of faith
There will be the vespers
Of the sea breeze sailing in
Through cracks and organ pipes
Even the eulogies of seagulls
And they will say
That what will remain is the courage
Like Tennyson’s Charge of the Light Brigade
Of martyrs lined up, next to the tallest, the Jesus poppy
And what they will remember
Is the ashes scattered
From barbaric crucifixes

And at the end
There will be nothing to fight for
Swallowing in the bitter pill
Of self-preservation
When the church will have a billion pall-bearers
Carrying one dead corpse

And this cathedral on the cliff
Will like soft tissue, be broken down
By scavengers and saprophytes
Yet the primordial heart will always wonder
Of that beautiful enigma
Called the God fossil – still preserved
Inside layers of faith amber.


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