Her temple is what she calls it
and it is perhaps so.
For by its side, she worships her faith and
cries out her pain. By its side,
she begs for salvation she could never attain.
Delicate yarn swirls the reddest Indian red.
Reminiscent of a sunset she unmistakably recalls
fragrant like the spring,
she now has lost; trapped in
an endless winter, she can never escape.
River sewn with precious sapphires,
flowers crafted with the milkiest pearls.
Surely the tapestry is crafted from the hands of
the godly. Sinful beauty has never been
depicted more expressively.
Sunlight-kissed yarn she begged from the skies
weaves the basket that was once her lap,
harboring the memories of
a past reality, now
a nightmare, haunting her existence.
Cream satin hides the flushed golden skin of an angel
who floats away, leaving behind
a destroyed woman on her knees
weeping, clutching on to the
frayed ends of her cursed motherhood.
The gilded silhouette cries out to her
in the silent, unflinching darkness that accompanies it.
But tears flood her throat,
submerging her own cries,
drowning her sin in the depths of her tarnished soul.
Stolen moon-dust coats the tapestry complete,
gathered by her trembling hands from those
heavenly gardens she will never greet.
Lighting up the empty lanterns
that line her lonely heart’s darkened street.
Every night she bathes, in the tapestry’s argentous halo
when harmonies of unspoken lullabies
swim in the ocean of her mind, as
a hope to bring peace to that part of herself
that hasn't felt peace since, ignites.