La Sistina Capella, a poem
Deep within the
Through a twisting labyrinth of halls,
We walked a very long long way,
To view the Sistine Chapel’s walls.
Michelangelo may be,
The greatest artist
has known, Rome
He’s praised from north to south
In every village, square and dome.
His David is imposingly grand,
And The Pieta of note,
But the Sistine Chapel, I am told,
Contain his most famed strokes.
We walked past lesser rooms of art,
Past sculptures standing tall,
Deities with marble face
Leaned heavily against the wall.
We climbed a thousand steps, it seemed,
And down a thousand more,
I wish I remembered all I’d seen,
I wish I could be sure,
Around a corner stood a sign,
An arrow pointed right,
La Sistina Capella was close at hand,
Michelangelo’s work within sight.
I took a step inside the room,
It was filled with a murmuring sound,
My eyes adjusted to the dark, dank light,
And I paused to look around.
There were frescoes on the ceiling,
Of that I had no doubt,
But the awesome awe stuck feeling,
I’d expected, I was left without.
Michelangelo had talent,
That I will not debate,
He was given extraordinary skills,
To paint, sculpt and create.
But the Chapel in the
That we wandered for so long to find,
Was full of a murmuring sea of souls,
And the room coarse than sublime.
I’d expected something holy,
I’d hoped for something grand,
But all I saw was paint on walls,
The sinful work of one mere man.
Perhaps I’m being critical,
Perhaps I’m just naïve,
But the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling,
Gave me one desire: to leave.