A broken window, ashes whirling, chanting
heard between the slats—such
mysteries here.
They worshipped at a
ghoulish altar, planted
hooks in minds,
controlled the rest through fear.
This church of
secret faith, a burned out husk
of cinders now, but listen:
rites abide.
You walk between the
blackened beams at dusk
and find the stairs
below, where something hides.
Though charred and
dead, they still must chant to keep
their god asleep,
their lungs with leather stitched.
You want to meet the
worshipped thing, so creep
and cast your light,
descend to vaults bewitched.
The bulb soon dies,
but not before it shows
the rotting mouths that
move and serve as host.
