Cold wind flows past the dying trees in streams

Taking the last leaves swiftly followed by moonbeams

It is on darkening cobblestone paths that we tread

Out of the approaching night’s bosom and dread

To the tolling of bells do we steadfastly approach

The serpent of old slithers along offering reproach

Never mind his venomous words spun like a web to ensnare

Only fear the Spirit and enter His House with sins laid bare

Crossing reverently as the tall wooden doors tower overhead

Chilling wind howls for you to turn back and retire home instead

Pushing open the doors the sights, smells, and sounds overtake you

Chanting, incense, and candlelit icons drench the soul to remake you

You worship in the warmth and safety of the Holy Church

In here your soul’s quest for meaning can end its search

Within the Church alone does worship in spirit and truth abound

Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses are we truly found

-CL Fuqua

Published by clfuqua87

Old soul with stories to tell.

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