moonlight enter's
this darkened church as I kneel,
always in prayer, always a slave,
frozen here,
waiting.
Tortured forms wrought in panes of glass burn as
dust dances in the air,
forming an image in my mind,
infiltrating my shamed soul.
A reflection on a child's face.
I raise my head, now kneeling before
this airy salvation,
A salvation tarnished and false. |