Spiritus Sanctus

Sunless steeples toppled the fonts of your apocrypha The mumbled harbingers of guilt's ascendancy The icicles of the chandeliers dripping Carbuncle tears, as the ransom of sullen lives Many Sundays saw the closing of word-stiffened pages In the hands of the blue-suited multitudes, In homage of cathedrals filled up with dead Lilies The pure must wear dark colors, in a kind of fake humility While the evil wear white alone, in broad strokes of denial And attention is a weather vane spinning madly At the top of the world, wanting only God to be watching only God to be watching only God to be watching