down where the river bends
standing upon the hill
is that old cathedral
still tending to its flock
and the bells ring and they boom
and they sound thunderously
a roaring call for penance
echoing among sinners
the warm message remains
set on the oaken door
preaching the word of love
to crowds taken by hate
but those days are now long past
priests were traded for spiders
and dust owns gilded altar
ill-gotten gains neglected
the chapel, long empty
still hungers intensely
hungry for confessions
and still hungry for gold
so the belfry resonates
summoning poor, wretched souls
in the grasp of the abyss
to empty what they once held
the men do not hold hate
they lost that long ago
but they neither hold love
for that was robbed also
these sad men hold nothing
the cathedral lies empty
filled only with hollow men
yet its never satisfied
so tolls always fly under gray skies
from the Cathedral of St. Matthew