Poetry
A lone white candle holds the shrinking flame
That keeps night’s darkness from the altar’s cross;
A shadow rests behind a silver chalice.
The wind’s temperate sighs still whisper heed,
Resembling yesterday’s forgotten choirs.
A Bible’s closed, too tired to preach; it sleeps,
Collecting dust. The statues seem relaxed
Though they protect the cold and empty pews.
The echoes linger from the Sundays gone
And I feel the peacefulness of God.