When they swung the wrecking-ball through the cathedral,
the banner-wavers cheered and piped their congratulations.
Their rainbow chants flowed through the dull thuds
of rough weathered greystone landing on the very flagstones that I had trod,
my feet following ten thousand more, smoothing the way
until the memory of a dearly beloved wife or husband
had all but been worn from their faces.
The stone dust, once allowed to hover serenely in an undisturbed interior,
was now agitated by the invading raw elements into a choking smog.
The ancient masons' hands, now dust themselves,
brushed their art as ghosts, and kissed their hurried good-byes.
Oyster-shells, the remains of the builders' lunches,
and put to production as work-a-do shims,
were exposed once more to air as the arches' joints split and fell,
the same breath allowing the centuries-old lime mortar to finally set.
The books had long been been cleared out and pawned,
chains no longer needed to keep them at their desks.
But when the stained windows,
long hidden behind security mesh,
spilled onto the floor like broken bottle-glass,
the moment was posted onto Facebook
through a self-illuminated touch-screen phone
And I, fearful and mute, shrank into the shadows.