Ode to Hephaestus

Honeysuckle wraps the rafters like yellow hands

Gripping at the wet, dripping posts

And a bruised flower pops up from the floor

Petals pricked apart by the planks

So pitifully pretty they blur the eye with tears

And ivy climbs the walls around me

Surrounding me with such holy air that it takes

My breath and runs down the halls with it

Where the sun plays against the dust floating

Like Faye and one can not help but to pray

This place is of God and the ants dance

Upon the kitchen table and sing hymns

Of dirt cooking on the stove where

There once was a pie; now this place grows

With life teeming and tearing the seams apart

Lightning blistering the sky and the ceiling

Splits and heaven fills these halls

And the Faye and ants and honeysuckles all share In the same romance of living and dying

The same and one can not help but to pray

For the walls bewailing and the sighs

Of the windows boarded up, where light

Use to move through them like warm blood

Beneath their skin, now cold and dim

For the paint cracked and crumbling with

Old age, gray hairs hanging around the ears,

Red ears that sting when the night descends

Upon the halls of this hallowed place

For the dancing of the ants and the floating

Of the Faye, one can not help but to pray