Ancient Of Days

I keep all my words in urns and scatter out a few ashes now and then witch doctor style, dropping wax drips upon the altar, which once upon a time was beating after the reformation they came and took all the statues, leaving behind empty crates and communion became a wingless mans only flight a closeted childs only escape from high in my lighthouse the steeple is visible, a needle piercing heavens side so the ocean can fill up when they asked me for rose petals I gave them ground up bones when they asked me for a sign I told them that Venus would transit just long enough for all of them to get a glimpse of their missing souls and also, I reminded them that ghosts are holy.