Come forth ye huddled masses.
Come forth patron saint of hunchbacks and petty thieves.
Beyond mine marble arches there is warmth,
and golden rooftops to shield you
from a rainfall that is heaven sent;
A test of faith, truly.
The weather imparts its gift
of hands, aged and shrunken.
I watch my life pass before my eyes
and am reminded of my own mortality.
The graves of prophets are my pavement,
I walk on them like stepping stones.
As I dip in and out of history,
how can you tell me that I am not God?
In this house,
where heaven and earth meets,
where ghosts become mortal,
paltry flesh will wither
under the gaze of a hundred lords.
The heavens open and
I feel the rain like tears upon my cheek.
In this moment I realise
that even God cries sometimes.
© Lola Stansbury-Jones
Bio: Lola is a young emerging writer originally from North Wales. She now lives in England, where she is studying creative writing. More of her work can be found at lolastansburyjones.wordpress.com.