Silver lace intertwined,
Crisscrosses the barriers
of the ecclesiastical mind.
Fraught with the perils unknown
of a prophets false time.
Ancient charts, new worlds
Black angels with golden curls
Directing still the lost visions
of the city of Dis’s clamoring minions.
Lifting on high the banner of death,
They steal the souls of a beggar’s bread.
While the shades of torment seek their Shiloh.
For nothing remains of the now silent prophet
and many no longer plea nor lift up their head
For they realize again and again and again,
That from this place, filled with angst and disgrace
they shall never part nor flee.
J. Allen Wilson © 2003