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The Meaning of Sunday
My footsteps ring as they delicately press into the clean tiles.
The room is simple. There are a few candles, that whisper to me, asking for more to join them.
I place mine delicately next to the two others, pressing my pomegranate lips into the glass.
The grand doors are cracked open, as I take my first steps into the plush red sea.
Silence echoes in the stillness of the quiet, all eyes straightforward, in a trance.
I am finally able to breath, the jasmine penetrate me.
It rushes down my nose, into my throat, through my lungs.
It seeps into my pores, and rushes through my veins, healing my body of its wounds.
The first streams of morning light melt into the fibers of the glass and seeps into the stained
glass, awakening the hues from their slumber.
Irises begin to collide with the light, as it shoots across the room.
The noise subsides for now, as the landscape begins to change.
They file in, one after another, a swarm of bees to honey.
Easy throbs of the organ sound, ringing, rejoicing in the vibrant air, circulating around.
The pulses begin to fill the room, with tunes sweet as caramel dipped apples on a
Crisp november morning.
Sounds move about, expanding from the depths beneath, filling the dome above.
It strips me of the weight on my back, and the impurities in my heart,
As I join the sound of the serenade.