Wax sentinels dripping hope,
staining the alter wood
carved to catch each passing dream,
a dollar prayer whispered to the wind,
catching in a throat.
Renowned halls sending voices heavenward,
pleas leaving ripples in rafter dust.
Lives are buried here beneath the pews
tucked into crumbling pages
supported by ashen, worn spines
bound on different land; in different company.
Cries ring hollow.
A shrouded woman bending rheumatoid knees
to take a last communion.
Empty hearts are insatiable,
questions without witnesses.
Lifetimes splintering on faith
honed by diamond-like righteousness.
Unshakable foundations crying out for repair,
while the wax marshal keeps time
burning generations’ cares into the alter,
dreams dissipating over dusted rafters
cries sent heavenward
people sent home.