The Church Poem by Brian P FitzGerald

My heart is held in icy grip
A biting wind now takes my breath
Along the path I struggle and slip
Before me dance the wraiths of death.

So bleak the church ahead I knew,
Grey and spectral in ghastly glow.
The tumbled tombs and gnarled yew
And drunken headstones covered in snow

The lych gate beckons with moonlit chill;
A frosty welcome offers me.
An ashen light from shuttered grill
What solace there can find for me?

Along the frosty path I tread
In wretched pain and hapless grief.
The door creeks open, with deathly dread
I step inside, but no relief.

Here death pervades the icy air;
And now amongst the ghastly flock
Whose twisted bodies sit and stare
I sit: my memories I try to block

The air is bitter, no warmth I feel
My fingers freeze in icy air
On bench I sit, on floor I kneel
No comfort now I find in prayer

I hear the preacher preach
Absolving all by Godly prayer
Of joys eternal he tries to teach
But thoughts of joy are dim I swear

“O Lord, make haste to help us.”
The priest now mutters – a plea indeed
“And make thy chosen people joyful.”
O, how can joy be so decreed?

No joy I find in here displayed,
As death pervades the arctic cold;
I swear to God in all I prayed
That joy for me would ne’er unfold.

I join a world, of gruesome dead
A nightmare grim in mortal terms
The ghoulish priest in fear and dread
My life and death he now confirms.

I slump and fade; I sigh and then……
No thought, no feeling; I dream no more,
I reap the sleep of sinful men;
In death I rest and live no more.