there's a chapel in my attic
there's a chantry in my head
there's a high and holy hardwood hall
lit with candles for the dead
there's a suicidal monk there
working fingers to the bone
he has learned his music and his lines
and convinced himself he's home
there's a few bats in his belfry
so he cannot do the math
cannot see beyond his slanted walls
pointing to a day of wrath
he can quote his teachers' wisdom
he can read and weep and pray
he can burn himself and all the wicks
but the bricks and stucco stay
what's it like to cut the tightrope
and go swinging into sky?
what's it like to tread on cobblestones
with the other passers-by?
will he ever leave his sweeping
or his brazen wine-stained wealth?
will he ever trade the firelight
and embrace the sun itself?
God give mercy in the vestry
help my monk to find his way
nail Shekinah through the polished floors
bring the real dawn and the day