• The Hollow Halls Reek of Wax and Hum Monotone Mutters:

    each plea bounces from pillar to stone, just to land on marble ears. Light prisms through windows to descend on bowed heads. It dances along the beads that thread folded fingers. Morning gives each Mary a halo that radiates holy, gilded lances as the glistening pearl-like stones become glaring replicas of omnipotent eyes. Watching Eden's sins with perpetual sorrow, the effigy prevails from behind the smoke swarmed alter -

    “The Scripture had to be fulfilled”.

    Like Atlas heaving the heavens, like Jesus carrying the cross, the choirs on clouds can't help but become splinters stapled up our spines. Each harmonized scale sounds more and more like the drone of wood as it scrapes the concrete heated by the earth-circling sun. But, we’ll haul promises and penalties to grand gates before hailing our lady of a trivial miracle - each beseech causing the thirst for guilt to congeal between wine draped vocal cords.

    Even apostles
    give way to some temptation:
    it’s written in stone.