The doors are open, but
aren’t they always?
The House of God always
welcomes you. That’s what the man on the TV says.
The House of God can save
you. That’s what the man promises.
The House of God… does
not make the visions stop.
Figures dance in the
flicker of candlelight.
The holy statues, idols
to long dead saints, watch me.
Their dead eyes follow my
every move.
The ones with visible
wounds, the martyrs, weep drops of fresh blood as I pass.
They are smiling at
me.
Wicked smiles. Not welcoming.
I move, my legs heavy,
towards the front of the church, towards the altar.
I move towards the man in
black, my supposed savior.
Save me Father.
I fall to my knees. I do not recognize my own voice.
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