Beneath The Bible

Man shortly lived in the wake of waning

days, dreaded throughout all the day’s end. the 

unfounded endings and upended beginnings 

washily wished by he who’d fend

Off stars of the sky. Into thence the abyss

hands held by and by ancient epistles, 

Cornerstones floating from their religious

body; till from the moon, the dawn thistles

Rise. People wake thence the hour they stay,

their screamers and preachers hearts’ entwined

round and stout the roundabout farmer’s hay.

Glass tales flaunt panes of Eve’s pains, and whined

Of all known Joy from Adam down to John.

Trumpets sound from the Pope’s garden, Bells

ring from the cathedral's doorstep, Hosts on

High cry from the rooftops, but still, who tells

Of the hopes and dreams which amalgamate

its very essence? The cries and panes and

screams of providence can only create

the surface of that sole standalone grand

Cathedral. Suppose thus the people, that

such a resplendent house must have such a 

grandiose meaning—but the meaning, that

much is simple. In a manger away,

The savior of preachers and screamers lay;

enthralled by the hubbub of small town life.

Peace and Joy and Meekness all an array

Of the Little Lord's life, key against strife.