The Church at the End of the Road

The red doors of 1886 open their arms
to breathe a wind of welcome
from angelic spirits suspended.
The stained glass on high, sparkles in
a scintillation of sunlight,
as the sacred hands of the Savior wave us in.

The sweet smell of Easter’s candle wax,
tears beneath a flaming helicoid of smoke,
swirling upward to skewer a bottle
of the King’s blood, dripping red onto
the bread of life –
I was broken, then strengthened, now forgiven.

I hear the thrashing of turned pages, and
the thunk, thunk, thunk of the pianist’s
damper pedal, in time with notes of naturals
and black-keyed sharps and flats.
The last note comes crashing into the pier
of the final hymn – Finally!

My eyes tire beneath a maquillage of
metrical hymns and homilies. I want to go.
At last, I hear the bend of wooden floors,
tired and crusty, as they speak in creaks
to the shuffling feet upon them, each connected
to Christians carrying my casket out the red doors.