At the Chapel Gates...

Cyrano, after all;
i had hoped for Quasimodo...
He had the better view at least,
high above the City of Light,
a Gargoyle living like a shadow
or a Ghost, if you will,
leaping from spire to spire
But his love died,
as did he in the catacombs,
for her heart was his home....

But Sunday Mornings,
the loaf of bread,
a slab of cheese
and the sharp blade,
with bread held between the knees,
a few poems,
and some tunes sent on the breeze...

Life's grandest moments are made of this;
the tragic and magic of Life as it is...
the wondering, the wandering
the pondering on
when we know what is the Truth
the moment it's gone...

Till the sun ceases shining,
till rivers hide underground
till the birds stop their flying
and uttering sweet sounds
(in case you didn't know)...

All one can do is try
and not bother in the why,
for what is the motivation you need,
what would put the gleam back in your eye?...

After the Nightmares and Horrors of Life,
after the cruel Truth of Death,
after the world is heaped upon your shoulders
and you can't catch your breath...
A walking Crucifixion,
stigmata, you can't hide
but we make our own Heaven and Hell,
deciding in which realm to reside
Choose wisely, if not quickly,
for Time always helps you to decide...
                    06-29-10