Betrayal

My heart has built houses of worship
by pulling in treasured memories.
As a bird plucks twigs,
she has stolen images for scraps to build
iconic shrines of devotion.

High atop a hillside, they are clustered together
in dome, pillar, and steeple: stern stones and marble
hauntingly beckoning my adulation.
Against my will, she toils, diligently crafting
my Mecca of Destitution.

As if I could refuse the beauty of my Gothic Cathedral
with its pointed arches and flying buttresses,
the sweet taunting chant of a Benedictine monk
solidifies my affinity;
my siren knocks me to my knees

and I am trapped within the ribbed vault,
endlessly lighting candles
inside this cruciform

where thoughts are as dark as gargoyles and
as romantic as stained glass.


All Rights Reserved: Elizabeth B. Wilson