He Who Wanders

Beyond the backwoods,
Where the trees grow tall,
Lies a church inked in shadow.
God-forsaken
And battered
By time, the forest temple
Sleeps and rots.
Wood-bent boughs and gnarled oak
Enfold the half-

Sunk ruin. Tinted glass,
Shattered and strewn, withers
In want of sun. And the pews
Unfilled fester in dust
From decades undisturbed.

But a priest remains,
Though his flock has fled,
To bless the body and blood.
At the alter he prays.
In the steeple he sings
With no saints or souls to hear.
For hope, like faith,
Never stands for reason,
And always in shadow
Will a light still shine.