My vacant village…more vacant than before
Tattered, elicit affairs lay at St. Gabriel’s altar
All the residents have wrapped up testaments into a crumpled yellowed newspaper, and gone home
Golden saviors, cloaked and free of fear, are unabated…akin to flea market trinkets…nothing but grab bags of unidentified…barren bones
Diamond crusted good Samaritans with chips on their robes seem to walk the same streets as forgotten servants. Each and everyone…lost from their thrones.
Not one left to preach
Know one to preach
No one left to dictate the streets that are lone.
