a bossom

Behind that gold crested chamber Rest your serene unleavened divinity A risen old creed of your last feast -living word that breeds men I asked... Could there be a faith More gray,genetic and Alive as this sacrament? Your enclosed flame; Burns of wax and incense Flickers a steady light Unmoved by protesting breeze I heared, You are the iris of the tebernacle No wonder your closed lid Signs a mediating semester: Sick souls kneel Mumbling lips, Motioned faces... Stringed beeds dangle In several strands Devotion...so amazing Ooh!mysteries of the altar Such wholesome grace You dispense without cost Do allow me A whole day in your bossom "and surely" Yesterday shall pass over me.