Where are the Footmen?
The blind multitude
sprints to the steeple.
The lost line the lane,
As shut eyes hurdle the people.
“Feed me. Touch me. Heal me,”
“Not now…no time…clear my way,”
rings the reply.
Thick walls atop sure foundations,
hurdlers in a holy huddle
gaze through carnelian glass at His creation.
What lies within? Crippled cry without.
Where are the footmen,
to boost the empty, the
lonely, the lame into