aligned carefully in pattern of stone,
green with age and hard carved passion,
nipped and tucked into
form fitting rosary beeds rolling between
Sister Flaca's paper thin fingers
counting sins existing only in imagination
and held secret within the walls of her cell,
if walls could talk....
Cold breeze whispers through abandoned pews,
dusty seats imprinted into wooden amens
splintered generations reserved by row
long time since confession spilled with
droplets of communion wine
Mother Bones preparing for Father Time
polish the chalice and light the wick,
fire where candles burned out revisited,
if these walls could talk ....
Rustling robes, colors faded into gray,
smoke tinted glass forever hidden
behind cobwebbed curtains and patrons
long grown deaf from silence
and a lack of contribution,
no epiphany here,
empty plates and boxes
as hallow as the knee prints
on worn out velveteen,
darkly stained with shadows
of communion whine and tears,
bless me, Father, for I have sinned,
and the choir loft echoes,
if these walls could talk....
Midnight mass, owl hooting,
in an abandoned cemetery,
we walked the long way on a short cut
during All Hallow's Eve,
abandoned church beckoning,
church bells ringing,
and we are running,
running to the house,
bolt the door,
Pope Boneyface is knocking,
fear runs deep, injected cleanly
into veins frozen in terror,
the missionaries are here,
and we are alone crying,
if these walls could talk....
Sunlight brings illumination -
these walls talk -
in trembling hand are the words
Prey for Mourning....
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Blessings ...
Richard
Loved The Haunting Images Pressing Into My Mind
Much Love To You Within The Corridors Echo...
Fabulous Poem Jag!
Peace, Love & Poetry
Embraced~Embrassé
Vickie
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