Catholic Poetry

As your bloodied head hangs, fallen low
as the setting sun casts its final daylight towards you,
we who have heard your last cry heavenward rush into the darkness.
On our turning away, we look upon dimmed reflections of each other
hoping to remember where you have gone,
as if your last breathe was with a glance upon your own corpse, instead.
To whom can we turn as a full moon rises?
The sanctuary veil is torn, and in our lunacy
we put to siege the walls around our own treasury.
The gaurd tower falls confusing our tongues
And the stones of the steps are shaken about the cornerstone–
that solitary gaurd of the keys to the keep’s throne room.
Sin makes men worship curvatus in se

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