This Ancient Holy Place
by Albert De Lorenzo
Through the cold mist of my breath
I see three empty arches,
once magnificent stained glass windows,
filled with leafless vines and thorns.
It is stone cold,
under a sliver of moon.
Pinprick stars pierce
through a black sheen.
The altar top,
broken, scattered on the floor.
A creature of the night kneels
wailing at the stars above.
Shivering clear to the bone,
I do not want to believe my senses.
Yet the hardness of the marble floor
insists to the reality of this place.
The sharpness of my slightest sound
raises my senses to a razor’s edge,
brings the creature’s mad gleam upon me,
his wails echoing throughout the ruin.
The creature comes for me,
stars begin to swim,
fangs sink into my throat,
the only warmth in this place.
How beautiful it is!
It seems so natural,
this ancient holy place,
my unexpected death.