The breathing ghosts
Fill empty space
Of a church that echoes
Serene with grace
Its wooden floor
For centuries tread
Echoes loudly
Both living and dead.
Each holy relic
Its alter proud
Speaks to me
Its voice aloud
A temple where
I visit seldom
Its vast eye watches
My spirit tremble.
Non believer still
Yet ink on vellum
My lost soul in thought
Its calmness welcomes
A weary traveller
Without a home
A place to rest
Not to atone.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: January 19th, 2026 02:30
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 46
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Carlos Alberto BUSTILLOS, Lorenz
Offline)
Comments3
A fine write N. You home now? lol.
back home but weary lol
Did you get the No.7 bus home? lol
the no 6 its quicker lol
Ah good lol.
How oft I have been in that church. A beautiful poem with great rhyme and pacing that shows wonderful flow so nicely done that it conveys that rest spoken of and is a fave
most kind, thanking you and much appreciated
You are most welcome
Intriguing feeling of beyond !
we all wonder dont we ?
make me wonder !
Where we have been, where we are and where we are going
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