The Church.

Doors gape open:
Bony wood-beams arching, a labyrinth of cloisters,
With articulation of breathing - wheezing - vibrating.
Canals carve up the hierarchy of the village:
 
The leader sits on his pelvis chair -
Sacrums of gold and silver.
He acts as the holy vessel to the outer-lands
Creaking from misuse and dripping burgundy.
 
Stapes shiver in reflex,
Knell, Wedding Bell, Knell again.
 
The peasants sleep on the coccyx-tissue,
Soaking up the leftover maroons-
Which they rapidly suck with parched lips,
Rusty jaws.
 
Craftsmen sit upon jagged canine pews.
Building the malignancy like puffed black birds,
Squawking for the sun that never comes,
Leaving their tools brittle and bent.
They seem to find nothing humorous.