I'll take a blade into chapel with me,
And I'll grip it because it's real.
I'll bury myself in dulled metal whilst God-in-words swirls around me in a crimson rush.
A robed weight.
Stone angels bow their heads to lower their gruesomely placid faces at me and me alone.

Stained glass seeps insidiously and stains air, dust floats from dead Bibles, songbooks.
The choir breathes it in, and chokes,
Slamming out Psalms.
A cacophony of ritual wraps plundered ideas in echoes and pricking incense,
And dead priests stretch smiles forever in the church tombs.