A Visit To The Holy Tomb Of The Saints-{ The Catacombs On New York's Westside } (Revision Of Original 2006 Post.) Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

I Visited the Tomb of Gods Holy Saints
At the catacombs, beneath blackened soil
Cracked cobblestone, its entry path
Outer walls wrapped in pea-green moss
Ancient dust grabs the back of your throat
Coats your lungs like the Takla Makan
Yet, two-thousand years of ashened mire
Ne're keeps curious minds, from coming.

Canonized souls, within hallowed walls
It's cellared cold dampness, chilling your marrow
And, the warmest days, cool your blood, and brow
Centuries of Godliness, imbedded, like stonehenge

Walk deep inside its sacred womb...explore
Touch the countless head stones one by one
Each crypt a storied tale beyond its epitaph
Tales of martyrdom, aberration...miracles confirmed
Read, the etched carvings 'tween aged cross lines
Remind yourself as to who they were
Before they stood before you here, in silent sainthood
The structure itself, wears a badge of discord
Hieroglyphics still vaguely legible....
Saw the disfigured Cross of James The Lesser
So curved, it mirrored the twist of St. Bridget's
Time's touch so acrid, boldly un-Christian

The deep ice-chilled ambiance...eerily captured
Made me wonder if their souls might still be fresh bodies
Candles at night, the only light that be cast
On the sacred remains, of this holy cavern
Walking back on the cobblestone path, I muse
How faith, and sacrifice, still strike the heart
And my God...how my lungs ached for days
From the lingered must and moss that festered
As if Heaven made it clear, I would not soon forget
My visit, and experience to this catacomb.
And I'm going back to the Tomb of the Saints
To revel in its holy ambience again.


FjR-MMXVII