NaPoWriMo Day 11: no prompt.
The candle is lit.
Her resolute hand
sparks bright yellow flames
as gold iconography shimmers.
Statuary bears witness.
Tears spill sadness
as hearts laid open
silently name their fears away.
Well worn kneelers
impress needlepoint cross or dove
on bared knees of any age
bent in supplication.
Tourists shuffle
up and down aisles
whisper loudly
ignore the calligraphy hush.
Believers turned gawkers
their occasional donation
a tip for service
we pay for with our souls.
lillian the home poet 