Sunday in Stratford. Death dresses well,turning heads looking swell and the service bell rings in the cloisters at three, These priests are the last of the Eastern brigade who wait for salvation,and the army that was, that created a nation of sorrowful sinners,with the notion of harnessing souls with prayers for forgiveness and bible belt dinners has gone. Each to his own and each dog gets a bone but the church stands alone forgotten, but behind every door something is rotten to the core and what colour you paint it aint going to hide whats inside. Death looking slick picks the lock and does not care whats in there,thats a shock, but pock marked,double parked with a trailer full of bones comes Jimmy Jones the acolyte who in this shadow world of night lights one more funeral pyre. Underneath a palm tree that bears no fruit, a male voice choir boots out another tune and Jimmy Jones does one more circuit of the moon and there is the feeling that very soon everything will end. In the refectory unaware of this the priests open the directory, hoping to find that place full of love and bliss, to bring their brand of goodness to those sinners, who know but never do and to those who dont but wish they did, who bid for auction lots,more funeral plots for Jimmy Jones to bury bones. I defy convention death is just another state that shows up late and not to mention stinks as well. The bell still rings at three.
Posted on: Sun, 19 Jan 2014 03:25:02 +0000