Poem/pros about the Duomo 

Twenty four elders of the apocalypse hide in threes between pillars at the top 

Scared not only of the possibility of hell 

But the of heaven in the absence of their friends  

They can’t all make it and this they know

Above them the blue sun shines through the top of the dome

What is above?

If they see heaven below?
gentle wings and babies covered in white feather 

The weight of the cross 

Not felt on the male angels back 

Greens, reds, and purple linens lightly cover skin 

Breasts, arms, legs, stomachs comfortably breath 

Never resting rays of golden sun brush the features of the ghostly 

Huddled up and telling secrets of their past 

the red flames burn bright from the under

Directly above sit clouds protecting the divine 

Women who hold instruments of passion and deception 

Play mockingly in the ears of the less fortunate 

Reminding them of what they have never had and what they will never quite grasp 

They let their strings dangle down and tickle 

Till they feel pleasure from the cries and pain below  

Limbs and horns and ugly broken wings 

Their misery unbearable and doubtfully deserved 

But the devil always wins 

And the angels take his side 

Why is it that I cannot see god? 

Is this the true reason the elders stay hidden?

What is above?
If this is heaven