Roma

 

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Rome is a moving baroque painting

A mortal paradise every eye should descry

Adorned with buildings that look like trees in the autumn,

boastfully stretching towards the sky

It’s pagan jewels clasped tightly inside its four wall fists

Bare testament to its obsession with romance

Its gold glistens too bright to be meat for martyr

Ergo a God of sacrificial love

Could not satisfy its sophisticated ways

The spree of lovers who dwell in its streets are breathing museums

of passed sorrows being swallowed up by embrace

All of them, tiny worlds existing in an ancient city

Revelling in amore

 

Silence

Sometimes, there’s a sermon in the silence

Eloquence from empty echoes

When God chooses to communicate through the quietest whisper

When there’s peace to be achieved

Stillness, and void sound

Are the unstolen breadcrumbs that guide you home

When your brain decides to throw a block party with your thoughts

I imagine God being that one guest who showed up,

Just looking for a good conversation…

So seek for Him

In the quietness of every moment

Therein lies an opportunity

To hear Him

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I sit on a set table

The faces surrounding me look unfamiliar

This grand room with shiny floors

Is a dungeon of silence

Dinner is served, sacredly

We dine together every rest day

The plates out, ceremoniously set

But within this room

There lies no rest

Can anyone break this silence?

Can we unfence our pretences and simply break… the bread?

A voice, like sour wine, graces the table…

“For what we are about to receive, may we be truly grateful.”

A tinkling interrupts the sounding brass

As my elbow accidentally knocks the stainless steel

The moment, cold as steel

But beneath our skin, blood boils

Will we ever break… the bread?

Will we ever recall at all

The reason why we maintain this awkward ritual?

I seem to remember all that is insignificant

These shiny floors

This grand room

Inside this magnificent prison,

We have set camp in the bliss of ignorance

The bread…

We don’t touch it.

We stare at it,

Become stale on its behalf

Why is that?

Our hands haven’t cracked a crust

Haven’t felt the crumbs fall like dust from our finger-tips

Nor wiped the leftovers from the sides of our mouths

Let alone shared a piece

There is bread on the table

Yet we remain unfed

Famished,

And far too many words left unsaid

We are never fully filled

By food which we aren’t hungry for…

The bread is always on offer

But now I’m starting to wonder

How long for?