this church             full of old bones
& cold air                a sleepy damp
skeleton full of silent noise & lit
candles for the dead & those still
gone & dreaming of its humid
walls & icy chills & bell breaths.
                everything can rot here
& still look pretty, weathered & clean
                the stale silence permeating its
                stain glass windows & the light
                                         shinning through
                                                           to muzzle us into quiet. 
in every ancient or historic rotting old
& picturesque church there is
a history that numbs us into         soundlessness
        our mannerisms zombified &
        tranquil taking everything in
at slow speed like quick sloths we slow step
from wall to wall        & room to room,          old relic to old relic,
                tomb to tomb tiptoeing around one another like
                we’ve all done this dance