I have to admit that I haven't really much to say at the moment to add to any disussion regarding the relative worth and artistry of neo-Gothic writing in the current literary environment ... so I'l just drop off a poem, if I may.
In the Cathedral, A Shadow Weeps
By Joseph Armstead
A haunting of the soul of a thousand tears shed…
It lives in the places where the light fades away,
Wandering alone and faceless, letting no sound betray
Its presence as it paces, fretting from pillar to archway,
A flowing shade of ink, estranged from Life’s grand buffet.
As the aged cathedral hosts the wand’rings of the faithless lost,
The spectral shade is a voyeur to desperate prayers tossed
Into the depths of the cathedral, privy to the private costs
Of sin, need, lust and greed, a banquet draped in frost.
Born of night, it passes no judgment, it knows no arrogance,
Makes no challenge of righteousness, no thirst for vengeance,
The dark specter floats cross time and space, caged by penance,
Secrets held close, watching the sad parade of human reverence.
The confessional rings with the desperate whispers
Of the guilty and the broken, as they pour out blunder and bluster,
Passions and cravings, afraid of their scars, fearing failures,
Whiners, vipers, and vultures bleeding for a broken vicar.
Each gloomy day is much the same as the next,
Light within the dark, no confusion and no pretense,
The withered shadow prays with the flock, pride taken in context,
And together, ghost and fallen, a process of healing they commence.
A hope to return to grace, with hope eternal wed.