Ghost Town Steeple

There stands the old gray steeple Watching over the sleeping people Above the lustrous rustling trees With their golden flowing leaves To where now have they gone All those ancient sleeping people Is it they whose sound of sighing Piqued my mind to asking why Neath these golden swaying boughs Shaking their sunny amber gowns Like ancient wedding bell vows Is it their wistful silence heard In burbling brook and warbling bird Is it they with such haunting ease Swinging to and fro the rusty gate In the dry wind churchyard breeze Kicking up dust in the empty street Rolling along a lonely tumble weed Do they moan about the rusty eves Edifying me to a state of peace Making knowledge a base cursed thing For what can there me more than this? The rested mind gratefully perceives This place better than the rest This place that is blessed the best And I feel no aching clamoring need The pulpit that thundered Hell to see For I will not think of Hell today Spoiling the perfection God has madeI like how it feels not to feel, although I have never used drugs. I can imagine ghosts must actually feel pretty good, because they are free of the torments of the physical body, and pure energy must be a happy, sublime thing Written February 20th, 2002 © on Feb 20 2002 05:34 AM PST   0 • 13