Christmas At Christchurch

I feel translucent a man of marble skin as if dreaming my motions every step a tread in water each reach of my hand a ghost grip touches but nothing holds and yet I clutch these stones and iron spear barricades as a sea-snail would the bedrock for this is my folly to hug close the masonry of charity I feel nothing no remorse runs down my arms to my useless wrists no rage twists my mouth into rabid snarl no pleasure lifts my face from the footfalls of those celestial beings bustling above not even a soaked black wall on which I am a shadow penetrates my deadened hide I feel grotesque I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone sown into the fabric of these towers with closed doorways that form broken arch homes for broken things but no longer am I broken I have embraced the cold and hunger of my mouth and my soul I am free of this place Yet here I am still here for you to see if you can stomach to see me