Exiles Poem by Michael Ardizzone

God has built his house of silence,
correspondent with the skies.
Gravely mortal, his creations
crave the fruit which He denies.

Solemn faces, lone in nature,
wander will-less, wander wide,
Filthy both in mind and body:
Souls are famished, Truth denied.

Living yet while mocking Reason,
subtle with their guilty jabs,
solemn soldiers without leaders
sidle hell-ward-lonely crabs.

Likened to a sinner's fountain
spilling forth with grand deceits:
built they towers, forged they weapons
cultivating souls' conceits.

Lonely Heaven looms in silence
as our fathers toil and slave
forging egos large as shadows
darkly edging out the day.

Buried then by rushing waters
tortured then with firey tongs;
who would build an altar to Him,
He who won't forgive our wrongs?

We, condemned, still mark our struggles
scrawling notes unseen, alone:
writing lines of fleeting fancy,
casting not a sinless stone.