Never one for churches

She was never one for churches;
the incense smells, clanging bells
sermons' tells of ave spells,
the window tapped winged birches,
last place you'd find her are churches.

Though an angel indeed was she
of soften lips and rosehip tips
sweeten grips did caress my hips
and passion flowed by our decree,
until vitality seeped and died did she.

I can never recall her in satin
yet goth her plume and dark her tomb
in wreathy loom my love in gloom,
engraved in solemn Latin,
beautiful tho' does she look in satin.

I am flooding in tears from her kin
no words dare heal their despair
each cry and flare - a wraith I bare,
since death against life did win,
I mourn, oh how I mourn with her kin.

To the golden emblem above the dais
I'll whisper a hymn to ease such grim;
light her soul so dim and all her limb
and if she'll raise - unto thee I'll praise
and worship you upon this dais.

Not likely granted, even in churches
for hope is lost, her soul hath crossed
my mind in frost and lost is glossed.
'I know my love', a whimper searches,
'why you were never one for churches'.