Altar
I kneel before an altar of dreams, muttering in a foreign language that weighs heavy on my tongue. A thousand prayers lay silent, trapped behind gnashing teeth— the salty sin of being, staining the window of my soul, through which I will look to the hills, while I, a broken thing, wait for beauty to come riding on the wind and build itself, piece by peace, from the debris of my hopes: a home inside my heart, wisdom in my words, and poetry in my pen. ©Marcel
