St. Nothing

It almost sounds like gunshots,
your heals on the marble.
Perhaps knowing no one moves silently here explains the calm.
Candles yawn, the light spastic
A dozen shepards peer down on an emptyness you could only call
Holy

This is a house of god
And long has it been since there has been a celebration in his honor

A bounding chuckle ricochets off the walls as you realize how these places make your mind wander

This place must be divine
It brings forward your most useless of habbits

The air is stale but sweet
The quintessence of 'room tempurture'
Neither hot
nor cold
Just there
Simple
Homely, Yet somehow satisfying

Often in youth it seemed cruelty to force one to stay awake in such a world
Now, in the later years of a wiser mind it is comforting
Nostalgic, the sunday afternoon.

The dim light seems just enough
enough to be labeled dim
Not dark
Nor light

As you meander forward
As it seems appropriate to do
You come to Him
And the thorns from which grape juice flows
And his bronze and wrecked unleavened bread...

Another chuckle rolls through.

You stare at the eyes passively
They can never quite look right at you

It seems there is so much meaning in that tonight

They say he loves you, still
But then they ask for a donation... so who knows.
It is strange how he'll never look at you

He just hangs there as if to hug you
But he can't get his arms around you
And he's ashamed
But, not sad
nor blushing

He points, perhaps
As if to say
Look what i have given you

Mediocrity
Luke-warmth
Indistinguished indifference
To all that is
"You"

Look at what i've given you
But nowhere else.