This hollow cathedral, awash in the light
of the winter’s cold moon, is my home.
Alone here I ponder the darkness of night,
and the future that waits for this unfinished tome.

My brethren are gone. Time has taken them all
to the comfort of which they had faith.
In the slow march of time, through the spring and the fall
I have buried them. Now I exist as a wraith.

I have lived as a beggar. They gave me their bread
and invited me into their care.
I grew from a son to a brother instead,
and now taking the pen I must finish my share.

Truth I was told, and now truth I must write
so that others one day can receive
the knowledge and faith which have made me contrite
and perhaps which will make the hard hearted believe.

Candlelight flickers. I straighten my back
and take pause from my toilsome work.
I can only trust God to provide what I lack,
and to strengthen my will lest my duties, I shirk.