they found a chapel carved in bone,
where every wanderer dies alone.
the candles flicker, lost in oaths,
no dreams, no prayers, just songs from ghosts.
the armour soft with ash and grace,
her scripture written on every face.
a tale of walls that love confess,
with broken hymns she would not bless.
—
below the shrine, the garden rose
from grief the faithful long to show.
the flowers bloom to kiss the light,
as lovers dance through tender nights.
their temple built on passing vines,
on trembling lips and borrowed time.
while heartbeats hum with hopes beneath,
with vows too hallowed for lips to breathe.
—
the fruit he held began to scar,
she held him close, her heart afar.
i gave his wings, but not my skin,
and called it love… she named it sin.
the roots grew thick around the fears,
they drink from guilt, they breathe from tears.
the wind recites the vow once sworn
to fallen saints and lovers worn.
he held her weight, but not a name.
the garden speaks in tongues of shame,
and silence dressed in sacred hands
to lead the rhythm for the damned.
—
her shadows fell without a sound,
they left no cross, they kissed no ground.
she left my song in smoke and gold,
then lit the sky and torched his soul.
their names dissolved in altar fumes,
he fed the flames, where death consumes.
the fire learned the shape he served,
for love was more than he deserved.
the ashes rose to crown the shrine,
my faith had gone before its time.
the gods lay down where lovers lie,
the place where light forgets to die.
Featured image adapted from a photo by Liana S.
See more on Unsplash: @cherstve_pechivo.
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