A scale of chimes plays across the rainbowed floor. The ethereal tones staple my ankles to the marble beneath me.
It's a song of such incalculable beauty and nostalgia that it forms shimmering shackles draped from my bare wrists and exposed neck. Tiny strings of constellations-- a galaxy of chains-- holds me with a peaceful weight stronger and heavier than any metallurgical creation.
Faith's fetters.
This used to be a place of magnificent worship. Has it now become an abandoned ruin?
The stained-glass sunlight murmurs a torque of hues onto my bared collarbone, and traces a spectrum of memories across angelic scars self-laid on my naked back.
With a bowed head and eyes wrenched shut, I see more with a closed mouth than I did with a sharpened tongue. Colors bleeding small understandings through my eyelids.
My fingers seek answers to the infinity of questions in the grain of the alabaster. But there is no retort. Even when the stars graze my wrists, and I can feel the coarseness of the tinted light, the only answer is a knot of Gordian logic.
And even if there was an answer in the foundation, maybe the song in my head would mute out the reply.
But I wait, still. It's a not-unpleasant place, this Quiet.
The light fades and the shadows come again to drown me with the familiarity of impatience.
And the pins of light burn all the brighter in the dark.
Until the light comes again, many days later, to spill the benevolence of painted rays.
7:52 p.m. - 2014-05-01
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