Faith In The Modern Age Poem by DM W

This angel stands proud,
yet somehow it's out of place,
silhouetted by
crepuscular skies of the
bleak North East. And its outstretched
rusted metal wings
just seem to offer contrived
grace. It's certainly
the half- hearted product of
a secular world.
I prefer Nature's subtle,
yet more profound scenes.
I often watch autumn leaves
as the wind blows them
pointedly across stern, black
cemetry gates. For
they offer a perspective
that this rapacious,
modern age seems to always
miss. No golden cross
escapes erosion in Time.
The Vatican's vast
riches don't represent Christ.
We may be misled.
Each new investigation
into the silence
that surrounds the heart of Faith's
matters, only seems
to dredge up more questions. Faith
requires Kierkegaard's
leap into the unknown.
It is the province
of ragged poets, dreamers
or exiled prophets,
not smooth or calculated,
or clear enough for
cold-eyed operators, nor
for the bloodless ways,
of the pedantic scholar.
Small, silent prayers
speak louder than words, amidst
the constant din, of
great roaring, religions.