Through dusty mists of time
I stroll among the greystone pillars
that lift the cathedraled, distant ceiling
upward, almost beyond my human sight,
toward the heavens,
and toward the heaven beyond.
Through the many, dappled colored lights
that paint holy pictures on my eyes,
I walk with momentary steps
as if each a prayer conducted
in reverent reluctance.
Bathed in the hush of angels, the angels come and gone,
now but statuary of beliefs
from a world now come and gone,
I find my soul staggering,
quivering, at the possibility of it still yet being true.
They stop me, these ancient recollections
they pause me in my breath,
as I listen upon these stones
for the footsteps of holy men not quite gone,
and for the echoes of their immortality.