Charles Kish  ART

Standing before,

blind pervious flock,

dangling the keys,

to a gate with no lock.

Interceding passage,

hollow and vain,

dodging the shadow,

concealing the stain.

 

Times far beyond,

the scorn of dark ages,

extends the sweaty hand,

reverenced at feast.

Feigned search of mystery,

of worn and torn pages,

 airs break bread into body,

 by self-anointing priest.

 

Pulling the tender roots,

Of its abound planted vine,

the crops soon grows barren,

upon trampled enure grain.

Drunken by the spilled blood,

of its bitter vintage wine,

feeble sways posed shepherd,

…bleeding out from its vein.