Occultation - The One Who Sleeps

In the churchyard where he lay
Lights a moonbeam on his face
No words spoken in the dark
Aging widow knits and rocks

Seeping from a wet cold sun
Spoons are bending one by one
Graves forgotten far too soon
Names are washed into the ruin

Six of them
Perched upon the tower
Waiting for
Bells of every hour
Ringing for
One thousand years
Watching as
The coffins disappear

All ways lead to the same room

Galleries of the dead
Awaiting ahead
With all doors open

Through underground tunnels
His hands holding his head
Erasing footsteps

Drying all the holy water
Using just its fingertips
Shining there in a pitch black church
Rose of the apocalypse

In the courtyard Waits the hearse
Adorning the ancestral curse
Thirty-seven signs of death
The one who sleeps won't be at rest