I crouch
unnoticed,
carved onto
obscure
archway
of green,
moss-covered spire.

glance right
the rose window—
rainbow images.

glance left
the gardens—
earthy smells.

don't move.
He doesn't know.

keep my mouth wide
grin madly while it rains
spout runoff,
heaven's water mixed with
bird shit,
and trace acids

can wait.
can wait.

The Saint watches,
but I am just
one of many
water-spewing
stone-faced
monsters
adorning his beloved
cathedral.

Saint Apostle
Saint Beloved
Saint Demon Scourge
Saint John

can wait.
can wait.

someone will break a vow
excuse a sin
venerate the effigy
abuse a child
forget a penance

The balance is shaky
my Lord rises
His descends

he will lose.

can wait.
can wait.

I will feed.

Will cast myself down
crash through the glass rose
through the nave and chapel,
tryptich and transept,
cloister and presbytery

mouth grotesque,
sucking in
worshippers
priests
bishops

and a Saint.

can wait.
can wait.

It is close.
The Beloved falters
The Church stumbles.

can wait
can wait.

John Borneman has had poetry and short fiction published in Star*Line, Flashquake, Andromeda Spaceways and The Fortean Bureau. Go to http://brassman.xtra-rant.com for more information on John and his various creative endeavors.