You told us a story, O God,
of the newfound lost -
the elder one with his chosen brotherhood
who will raise their voices as one
against any infraction upon quid pro quo.
The baritones that fill this wooden room
are vested in this place.
They afix themselves in chairs 'round the table,
paid in full, polished, hardly a scrape.
In this sanctum there is not the slightest dust
to mar the clean lines. 
These are the constant.
They gaze with blank stares against the sullied world
holding the scrolls,
clucking at the fallen.
They see no life after death.
Only the effects
lingering, smelling,
to be shunned:
the dead stay where they belong.

The room is cold,
built on a slab 
solid as ice,
the architects ignorant of the changing season 
as each dawn bores deeper into the frigid night.

© 2010 Andy Gay