This Is Not a Holy Place

Part I. In the heartland of that place called home A figure sits alone in an empty chamber where Cracked walls, like squinting wrinkles, Hide silent hesitations of untold sorrows. This is not a holy place, Nor a room of peace nor prayer nor solitude- An infinite stream of broken faces flash with eyes Glaring on the bare walls, A theatre of hell for a lonely stranger, To contemplate crimes committed Or those omitted By the dirty hands of painter friends Whose graffiti grows like prison ivy. A red-eyed Master of ceremonies, Hidden someplace in the cracks, Gleefully smacks with satisfaction As the Munchian dreams stare Into the hollow air, over and over, Screaming in all their variation the subtle Deceptions the facades of men wear. This temple, whose gods long since fled into the shades, Receives now only wordless souls, Worldless men, whose being Nobody knows nor sees nor cares To see or know, For they offer only better visions Of one-eyed ghosts wandering by dark night Searching for the one golden candle Whose glow Will flame the hope of light and set things right again.