The church is small.
The paint
peels
in disciplined flakes.
Candles lean toward each other
like conspirators.
I light one
for reasons I cannot defend.
The flame trembles,
but remains.
Outside,
the wind practices disbelief.
Inside,
wax insists on hope.
I kept a light on
for
what never returned.
Morning found it tired
but still believing.
Sometimes,
I speak
quietly
so the wounds
do not remember
their first language.
Some evenings
I set another plate
for the life
I almost lived.
The chair remains
polite
and empty.
The house
breathes differently
since you left.
Doors no longer close,
they hesitate.
She slipped into convulsions
no one seemed to understand
until her loving mother
took her by the hand
Her body shaking wildly
while lying on the floor
depressing of the tongue
saves her life & more
Some have disabilities
not apparent to us all
silently through the years
upon us they befall
Searching for the cure
or treatments to help out
a selfless love for others
is what life’s all about
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