I build cathedrals in my mind
Not the bright and shiny kind
The sort that sort of take up space
Obstructing from amazing grace
How sweet the ground beneath my feet
Sacred summer, sacred street
Where it ends an apple tree
Where I was stung once by a bee
Baking soda for the wound
Rotten apple, rotten mood
Bees do sting and men eat fruit
Generations point and shoot
They’re long gone now says the odds
New cathedral, different gods.
About the Creator
Cody Pelle
Doing all that I can to carry on the strong lineage of Kentucky storytellers in both fiction and poetry.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.