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At Vespers in Melancholia
Grey clouds close the darkening vault
Buttressed by graceless, leafless pollards
Passing cottagers, intent on boys to rent,
As I cross the bridge of worn oak boards,
And enter, (I'll call it) Melancholia.
The lights burn bright in the city of salt,
Baleful, souless sodiums glare.
Light neon girls who hussle and halt,
Between ancient bulwarks and no half timbers,
The expensive erections of better days.
Two drunkards fight over spilled beer,
While punters shuffle by, with that nervous nod,
On the way to the skeletal, dismal spire,
The accusing finger we point at the God
Who only moves now in our mystery.
Inside the dreadful gothic pile,
Thirty shining shekels of smouldering filth,
Incence burning, cloying, vile,
And I raise my sore eyes to the carved relief,
High in the Chapel of suspended belief,
Of holy Judas hanged.
You spelled "grey" wrong, but
You spelled "grey" wrong, but this is an exceptional write!
Gray or grey
Hi, thanks! I've edited it. The Gray-Grey divide was only settled in Britain in the late 20th century, too late for me it would seem, plus my German spell checker, when applied, seems to prefer the American spelling.