The Golden Dolls Poem by Angus Wyman Macdonald

I can almost hear my sins
crunching underneath my steps
I look down and see these
as if the Earth were made of glass
forming vague and misty images
moving to the Center far below.

Have the hallowed been un-torn?
have the consumers had enough?
did we rotate the Moon
and catch its light
tearing leaf shadows from the trees?

Has the once-wild crucible of pain
been tamed?
its molten finally cooled enough to cast
the new, the unsee shape?

Saints stare back with such looks
as if to see inside our hearts
our peace, our love, no secret to them,
but never mind
they were tortured too.

We are the dolls of golden smiles
sitting high up on a dusty shelf
forever looking, with un-closed eyes
how far really do we see
into the future and the past?

Let me show you the end of the World!
can you sense along this footprint path
the history of pilgrims
its imprint of hope, like teeth
molded the muddy ground?

Coughing across the hall
reminds me of Death
but He shall not come yet
there is much to do
the beneficiaries will have to wait.

Timeless now the open sky
above the birds and trees
the wind, the clouds, the Moon, and galaxies
all spinning through the Universe
whose end we will continue to pretend
not to do.