I do not believe in all the promises
that religion offers, yet here I sit
on a dark evening, in a country church
aglow with candles and awash with the
harmonies of a madrigal choir
drifting out from hidden speakers.
There are just three of us here.
I write with painful slowness
so the scratching of my pencil
does not disturb.
In the arms of this beautiful stillness
I desperately want to believe that
death will transport me somewhere
half so beautiful as where we now sit.
But even if the afterlife
is not as kind as this
night’s sweet respite,
these minutes are
a gift of grace that
will live in me from
this day forward.
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