I go here because it is beautiful. 

when people go to marbled palaces, spritzing perfume, 

I go to this haunting church, 

with shattered beams and moldy rose-stained glass. 

 

Here is where I can feel the hum of your influence, 

in every crack of decay, 

call of the crow, 

maniacal cackle, 

and unholy vision. 

 

I braid my skin with gold and sea foam 

into a tapestry 

of roses and seashells  

 

I bring my figurines and runic stones, 

and speak softly at your hearth,  

scribbling doves into the dust, 

and throw the woven art into the flames. 

 

The gods call out, 

but it is just a cacophony of futility. 

You have shown me the pen and paper, 

taken my hand and taught it to flow. 

 

You’ve raised the silver glass  

enlightened the perfections. 

What better could they offer me? 

Oceans and skies? Arrows and wine?  

  

You have fought for me,  

sung for my wilted core, 

and unfurled its benevolence. 

  

This dilapidated assembly creaks and shudders only for you, 

Great moon of myrtle.