The vestiges of men wander
somnambulating through the cruciform
hollows of cathedrals
stripped bare of salt and light.
The tepid faith of modernity
cannot stop the walls from collapsing
on felt bannered sanctuaries
that echo in responsorial acclaim
garishly accentuated by guitars
strumming through empty words
that have lost particular meaning.
A shell of a shepherd paces behind
a long blank table
his back to the tabernacle of life.
A feverish mob of modernists
sling insults over the Mother of God
in hopes she will tumble to the ground.
Here we watch the days pass over men
like the shadow of the angel of death
pulling them into the darkness
and marking them for certain damnation.
We know the sun will rise tomorrow
but what will be left of our land
when men rouse from their slumber
intoxicated by the vices that keep
them chained to their bed?