Oh great palace of riches,

Overflowing with ghosts of myself.

 

Your halls intoxicated me with the smell of ancients.

Your walls sang to me in silks and satins lined with Perisian lace.

You told me the saints lived in these walls.

 

And I believed every word.

 

My own eyes became glided.

 

Blinded by treasures,

I wrote you ten letters,

With etchings of my soul on each one.

I leant my innocence to my simple words,

And hoped the voice of my soul might be heard,

Pounding on your doors day and night.

 

I prayed that you would believe in me,

That I was worthy to enter your holy ground,

And drink with your disciples. 

 

Everyday I sat by and waited for you.

like you were some skylarking suitor.

 

You are no man I’d marry.

 

And you seemed to think the same of me.

 

My eyes have lost their varnish.

They have been washed back to brown.

And I see you as what you were to me,

An idol, a false prophet, a Judas.

 

If I had only known,

That I had prayed for a plan larger than yours.

 

Illusionist you are.

But the letters I addressed to you,

Had a much greater pen write the reply.