Friday, September 7, 2012

Colors stain the field. A magnolia tree
vibrates through its center with a quieting
rustle reigning over a neighborhood
desperately trying to be saved from decay.
Lone travelers are silent in their crumbling troubles,
they blight the space before the house of the cross,
rounded by the purple veil that grace its arms.
The patrons trickle in with their black crowns
and capes of white, breathing glad tidings
for a new morning allowed to their old bones.
Their faith is love, tested and refined,
but possibly chiming
passionate solitude
made into a cage
of brilliance. 

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