Pale as a white jade
I wander around the nave
pondering whether
your sacred feather
is a threat to my shelter.
Thus far, since the rain
came to converse,
there has been no presence,
witnessed by my eyes,
of a sacramental wine.
But rather the stain
of the Holy bread's decay
on my yearned benevolence.
Creating great torment
on my welfare.
Since my weary eyes,
at present time,
can't discern,
please confess:
are you a gargoyle
or a grotesque?