At This Hallowed Moment

Angels lurk behind colonnades,
haloes fading like an untended campfire.
Like a dead bird, silence drops—the tired sun,
neurotic minstrel, crooning its madrigal
in the key of frustration.

I am a master at building temples
in which I never worship.
Desire becomes my Trojan Horse.
Morning arrives like a cop delivering a subpoena.

Standing like a young king beneath a barren fig tree,
I am ready now to garb my quest in sackcloth,
to drive nails through the palms of everything I know.