The Church

From my seat
I can make out the hands
of the clock on the steeple.
As daylight slips,
like a man
trying to hold on to his sanity,
slowly sliding into
the darkness of madness

Stained glass windows
flaunt their stories,
dancing like angels,
as the last few rays of summer gold
excite them.
Then they settle
beneath a crimson sky.

Below, the headstones
lie sombre and silent,
a mocking epitaph
is all that is left of a man.
As the light fails,
a twilight obscures them
with clinging shadows.