Silver cannon barrels adorned the walls

Bringing the eye upward toward the crucifix

Christ mollified, frozen in time,

Chest  bones, protuberances that would have elated a xylophonist.

Body and blood hidden behind golden doors.

 

Below the departed had been drawn in on his chariot.

A man-like creature trilled Amazing Grace in contralto voice.

He lay there containerized,

Numen drifting around the chapel.

The hollow cannons puffed cascades of sibilant sounds

Echoing round the chamber–

Vibrating his box,

Silencing those lost in their own synapses.

Anointed one spoke of familia and the Shepherd

Bestowing succor

Holding at bay thoughts of impermanence.

 

A Little McCartney placed his head of black hair on her shoulder

And she settled into his nearness, shoulders sagging lethargically.

A hairy-knuckled hand landed on the edge of her other shoulder

Squeezing a balm of his pain into it.

Christ still hung above them

Twin fingers pointed to a point distant denoting peace

Or capriciousness, afraid to look upon them.

They rested in their foxholes with the dead beside them,

Breathing sighs of relief or implacable indifference.

They, rendered speechless.

Leaving mutely when no further words could do.

Glory to the shepherd!