Relics and Revelations
By M. Allshouse
I was a wrecked altar in a dilapidated cathedral,
stained glass fractured by weathered storms.
Waterlogged pews—no one sat there anymore.
Candles—melted wax, singed wicks—
smoke thickened the air I breathed
while I lamented the things I’d lost.
Prayers hollowed the chambers, unkept,
confessional walls torn by perceived sins.
No one would worship here;
it hadn’t been a sanctuary for so long.
My heart: a solitary nun—
faithful, stubborn, small.
The priest: a warped psyche that fed her lies.
Salvation late to arrive;
sermons like stale bread—stories I already knew.
Censers poured sweet incense over dust;
new hands weeded out the rot.
A fresh priest came with purer sermons,
anointed in some gleam of God.
And the nun — she kneels between relics and revelation,
torn between the husk of ritual
and a hand that offers light.
Relics and Revelations
By M. Allshouse
I was a wrecked altar in a dilapidated cathedral,
stained glass fractured by weathered storms.
Waterlogged pews—no one sat there anymore.
Candles—melted wax, singed wicks—
smoke thickened the air I breathed
while I lamented the things I’d lost.
Prayers hollowed the chambers, unkept,
confessional walls torn by perceived sins.
No one would worship here;
it hadn’t been a sanctuary for so long.
My heart: a solitary nun—
faithful, stubborn, small.
The priest: a warped psyche that fed her lies.
Salvation late to arrive;
sermons like stale bread—stories I already knew.
Censers poured sweet incense over dust;
new hands weeded out the rot.
A fresh priest came with purer sermons,
anointed in some gleam of God.
And the nun — she kneels between relics and revelation,
torn between the husk of ritual
and a hand that offers light.