Church Postcards

The black ice wind scrapes
across a tar patched sky.
Like an old, tired native,
it weeps at the view of
physical dissemination.

From the depleted East
the elements pillaged
conviction all the way to
the evening’s crashing sun.

The valley vibrates when
creatures clamber over
mountains, into cathedrals.

Reminders of hope abide upright,

a Vegas neon crucifix beacon
to guide us all.

To others, the illumination could
have been the star of Bethlehem or
an orchestra of hyenas
honing their skills on the meek.

Sets of rules bleed into open fields,
blossoms of childish purity refuse
to open.

Mother Nature’s ghost glides like
wished upon dandelion clocks that
jettison toward a daylight moon.

Her apparition whispers
a soft yawn in your ear.
The meaning is unpredicted
and surreal like
a teenager whose teacher
went to school with you.

The portcullis is closed, the drawbridge
raised while crocodiles and piranhas
wallow in an autumn eclipse.