Language Of The Crows

As the rose that rested on the pulpit unfurled
I saw galaxies in the petals, 
and smelled old hymn books and bibles.

Feathers fluttered from the
the vaulted ceiling,
The crows always got inside
and cawed -raucously cried.
The pews were hand carved hickory,
Rough-hewn and heavy

I watched in awe as
the women wept
and the men babbled

I didn't understand a word that flowed
from their crazed and rapturous maws,

They might as well have been
speaking the same language as those 
dark and hungry crows.

Neither believing, nor denying,

I silently sucked in that sweet opiate.

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