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
unintelligibly,

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.