The Church

Written by: Carl Nel

Wooden guardians part reluctantly,
Their threats feeble against my entry.
The gloom adjusts itself in the warm light from outside.

Cold steam billows
Where incense rose and inspired.
Wooden benches,
Unseated,
Apprehend the emptiness.

Old blessings echo off the walls and fall on to cracked tiles.
All around the cracked altar swirl spirits
Invoked in need.
The long empty table,
Unconsecrated,
Uncelebrated,
Unblessed,
Stands mostly
Unused.