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The spires of Notre Dame burn,
shrouded
in flame and smoke
reduced from splendor
to hunchback
Gargoyles scamper across
Parisian cobblestones,
belching fire, ecstatic that
after 800 years stationary,
they have reclaimed their
rightful impish purpose.
Our Lady, Notre Dame
does she mourn or chuckle?
I wonder, did she ignite the blaze herself?
Overturn tables during Holy Week,
just her son did
two millennia ago, incensed at the
commercialization of the sacred,
tourists traveling through her body in an endless stream.
Mortals mourn,
