The Chapel Autopsy
The horses fast of fortune have
Put me upon the evening step
Of once the residence of holiness—
A place where sunshine's lovely beam
Embraced what was but stone into
A moral marble, where the voice
Of an arterial choir pumped
a vital blood, and stained glass
Did glimmer wisdom bright, as though
The iris of some sacred eyes,
Those privy to some rare yet not
Uncommon truth—
But such are memories that are
Not mine. For this here marble is
But sordid. Now, the choir spits
And coughs. The rainbow iris sleeps
In black and gray and white. And all
Have known the silent temper of neglect.