Catching the Scythe

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When full moonbeams hit St Barquistes, listen.
The stony buttresses live; not only flesh can pass away.
In the gloom of grief, under black rainbows, the gargoyles sing: some in Hebrew, some Latin or French; others still, Aramaic.
But heed their canticle; listen for names.
And if any named are those you love, spend time with them while you can.

Be warned:
In the stillness.
In the dark.
When full moonbeams hit St Barquistes.

Watchman

From the thunderheads of November to the kingfisher skies of summer; under corbeled vaults and beeswax cloisters, I’ve watched them, oftentimes my voice their only company.
They perished, their Eden turned to my Gethsemane and I felt the science of time develop emotions; grief.
I shall remember them.
But I’ll tick no more. The brass sun of my pendulum will hereafter set.
This day will be forever remembered in my stillness;
Not broken, just loyal.