sixtyseven

Like a sea of blood, they sat patiently on the steps.
Mirrored hands all around as
The hollow tombs repeat the words shoved down their
Throats.

Their Prayer. Their Savior. Their Redemption.
Defining their existence.
A definition much too conservative for their sad frames.
Ceremony.

Drown the babies
and run that hand across the young girl's face
once more.
On sunday we can repent.