Once, man built mountains
of wood and stone
to obscure the light of God from the people,
and these mountains loomed,
in gaping majesty,
to remind us of our basic lack.
But in the present, post apocalypse,
God is here.
And he sets upon our towers of tinder, engulfed in flame.
Once out of reach of peasants,
now out of reach of firemen.
Roofs only God can reach.
He rips the spire with fingers of flame,
peeling panels of apocrypha
from stained glass windows,
clenching culture in a flaming fist
and squeezing until it melts,
falling in glops on gothic stone.
From the edges of the earth,
we can see it–
a horror to match the age.
For first he burned the forests,
and warmed the oceans too,
but it was not enough.
And so he sets upon the rooftops of our greatest pretensions,
and rips them from our clawing grasp.
We are toppled.
We cry out in protest, but we are helpless.
Our palaces most imposing
are not impervious.
We build these mountains of mankind
to raise ourselves nearer to thee,
but the steps to the roofs that reach God
are too long.
He is razing the roofs to the people,
to bring our symbols not peacefully to rest,
erase our origin stories,
and start the earth anew
out of the ashes of our many failures.
We let the forests burn and the oceans warm;
We filled the river with lead
that led to the mouths of the children;
we built these mountains to keep the poor from God and keep God from the poor,
and they burn for our love of their beauty.
And so God is destroying the negatives,
the panels are panes and the panes are all melted,
our paraffin prayers burnt down to the wicks.
Our stained glass culture is canon,
but what whispers of it will waft from the ashes,
when Notre Dame is burning?