Hollow Chapel
Step inside a forgotten chapel where ivy climbs the stone, candles still burn for the nameless, and echoes of old prayers linger beneath broken stained glass. Faith, loss, and mystery meet in these poems.
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There is a chapel deep within Black Briar Forest where the candles are lit every evening by ghosts who still believe someone is coming. The pews wait patiently. The door never locks. The wind has memorized the promise: “Later.” No one has seen the visitor in many moons. Still, the candles burn. Not because hope…
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The church still stands. White paint peeling like old skin, its steeple piercing a sky too blue to remember mourning. They say no one worships here anymore. But I know better. The crows keep the choir. The wind recites forgotten scripture through cracked boards, and every groan of old timber is another hymn the living…
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I left the candle burningon the porch. Not for luck. For whoeverstill called this place home. The bowl glowedbetween my fingerslike a tiny harvest moon. Each exhaleslipped beneath the door. Each inhalefelt borrowed. The trees stood perfectly still. No crickets. No birds. Even the windseemed unwillingto interruptwhatever conversationthe dead were havinginside those walls. I never…
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There is a chapelwhere no prayers survive. Only ravens. Only ivycurling around broken stonelike fingers refusingto let go. I light a candle anyway. Not for God. For the womenwho were called wickedsimply becausethey refusedto burn quietly. The flame flickers. Somewhere beyond the trees,something ancientsmiles.
Between Bruises and Blooms 