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.

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
haunt in an autumn eclipse.