He sits this tired man and waits
in falling snow for doors of
church to open and let him in
from bitter cold and blowing
winds that curse the night
and cast dark shadows across
his sacred doors of sanctuary
on the edge of life he slowly drags
his battered soul across
the marble floor of Notre Dame
while angels sing Silent Night
Wearing clothes from
beggars bargain bin and
tainted on his breath from
rubbing alcohol mixed with
cheap wine he curses
his leather worn frowns of
wrinkles earned and beaten
on his brow from falls of
weathered time
Bent and shallow is his gait
and gasping breath from burnt
out lungs of nicotine and chew
coughing blood he wipes away
the spittle with the backside
of his hand while wheezing slowly
enters this sanctuary of priestly
tombs and trembling silent night
with both hands cupped he reaches
out to feel the warmth from candles
glow and lights a wick in silent prayer
for those he left so many years ago
This shattered man on bended knee
prays to God and whispers quiet words
of thankfulness crying quietly while angels
draw him close with outstretched wings
pointing to heavens gate
He slowly lifts his head and wipes
the tears from his canvas face
while choirs sing another Silent Night
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2010. All Rights Reserved