Notre-Dame-des-Sept-Allégresses II

I often drift past your ruins, A corpse of stone, blackened tin, and spoiled timber, Your bloodless body still lingers over the neighborhood, Not as memory, But as a weather that refuses to leave. Most walk past you Without ever looking up. I never do. I remain, Tracing the outline of the fire that once dreamed itself into matter. Accept this small nocturnal offering— Gentle, Almost peaceful— For you have become The quiet grammar of all things that crumble, Even those that once believed themselves celestial.