Church

Church

The church is the biggest thing in town.
Huge, hewn stone, hauled hundreds of miles,
a testament to Christianity.
A monument in itself, to the rightness
of righteous belief,
for who could haul and hew
if they knew
their questions would go unanswered,
their inquisitions, begged on bended knee,
fly out of flying buttresses,
bounce off the belltower,
and bring nothing but silence?

Belief needs no concrete.
The tons of stone are enough,
the unbending, balustraded nave
brooks no bouts of doubt.
Its physicality manifests the antithesis
of my infirmity,
for my beliefs have have never sparked
such superior structure,
such skyward-seeking symbology,
such arduous adoration,
never allowed me assurance to commit
wholly,
to assert my authority over attention.

You can't help but look up to it,
neck craned and cricked in stricture.
You can't help but hear it,
the ringing adulation of the bells
extolling virtues in idyllic scripture.
So who am I to doubt
the devout
as I wander,
ghostly,
unseen and un-momentous below?