How It Crumbles

A couple of ruins leave the cathedrals nave and portico; it is always molting season, mice and beetles help they nibble and gnaw, wind-laborer’s, labor, their whiplash backs bent, to lever slates and all things loosened. The sanctified, they guard their stony hearts but the edges were made to crumble, made to be returned to rubble. The two twined ruins exiting these ancient piles were created to be spans and transits for the upliftment of saintly figures, no one will miss them, yet their plinths, their buttresses their embossments until recently held a small alcove heavenwards a niche, that will probably lose its faith soon, toppling one year at a time into an agnostic downfall. The two ruins are so disfigured as to be nothing at all, but they are moving in mysterious ways to where a tireless worker will help them rise again, but of course dust will stir up dust, the mice and the beetles will continue to nibble and gnaw, however the Maker will be ready once more to return dust to cathedrals.