Peaceful Whitsuntide

Chimes at the brink of dusk alert the temple mice. The organ player snores strung across the virgin’s bust. Reverent fervors barked through tinted glass The chalice pours its granite wine Amidst the passion rose our Saviour’s past Among the flames arched the devil’s spine to spark the mortal rust. Crawl from the pebbled shore to valley’s glacier ice. Winds froze the penguin’s range to a polar deep cold thrust. The virgin glided by with sword and shield Passing closed doors for saving grace And as the rodents crept and as the player slept her plumage kept the pace relentlessly Her panting lit up the devil He spoiled her infinite fast. The player seized the wine from the valley The penguin can’t explain Our Saviour must A medieval remembrance agitates the gift of bread and wine Raising the question of propriety as a crumbled cross of signs. The path is narrow to purgatory We mustn’t commence to flagellate. The scarlet letter in our society scoffs the wounds and virgin’s glory. Disengaging the bitter chains bounding our souls to quarries. Gives us hope to tolerate the blaspheme and the stories. Chimes at the turn of day are sounding false advice. The canonizing tore apart a sacred trust.