Skeletal saints
without faces,
bare hollow torsos
behind glass
throwing back at us
reflections
of tainted walls,
mute windows
and pale flowers
like the spit of angels.
Echoing regrets
bounce from pillar-head
to pillar-head,
injuring
disconsolate apostles.
Prayers hit
cupolas painted in
the fuzzy trompe l’oeil
of mould
and shatter,
raining anonymous hopes
like acid
over us all.
Maria Cohut is a writer, reader, listener, watcher and lover of all things gothic, weird and obscure. She comes from the land of kitsch vampires and cheap alcohol, though she is currently based in the UK. On a day-to-day basis, she keeps impending madness at bay by striving to maintain the fragile balance between her research, her teaching, her writing and the slightly less exciting parts of her life.
Eunoia Review 