The heat of the air circles around the room in an almost suffocating ,but a comforting way like a tight hug. Looking up at the ceiling, expecting to find salvation, but only finds dull, tired lights hanging from the white plaster by a string. The morning sun is pouring light and warmth in the room with the paintings from the windows. The plain off white walls are now alive with reds, blues, and greens seeming to move in forms of angels. The light streams down the room to a pool with no water, where the living water and light of the world is said to take your pain away.

There is a painting on the wall of the pool of rebirth showing the cleansing of the only perfect being that has walked this Earth. His kin, whose hands baptized him, lives on his hands painted in life's water. A crow that I know to be a dove flies overhead the son of the Father. The blues and brown of the earth and sky fade into red and black. The lack of light casts shadows in a way only the morning star could understand, but is over looked due to the voices of heaven that sway in front of his gaze.

Praises fly through the room then lift up to the heavens in a praise. The beat of the drums organizes the room in primal sophistication. Tiny black craters liter Mylar in naïve hopes of education and need to be heard. The beat of strings leads in a melody towards enlightenment. Keys that are chipped from the growth of life and excitement, tells a story of the destructive nature of small pleasures. The angelic vibration tells the stories of woe and praise as it rises and falls. The stories grows from frail, aged, wooden stands with a voice that nurtures the soul, and guides it to immortality. They seep into the walls through its cracks and bounce through the room in a constant game of telephone. The vibrations are then stilled by the voice that recited the words of the Creator.

A wooden post below the gaze of the Redeemer, stands proud and reassured in the mark it bares across its front side. The oak worn, but stature never changing. Its voice educating and reprimanding, but quivers with the wisdom of years and passion. It rings low with the authority of a patriarch. The altar's voice of richness in vibrato and sanctity. The face it shows to the room is clean, smooth, and bears the mark of righteousness. Behind the mask is dirt that has crusted over its desk, sweat along its protective edges, and scratches all around its inner face. The painting and stand sees it. Heaven sees it, but Earth sees the face of glory.

Wooden benches with red cushions are lined down the room. It is stained with the pain of use as the spirit of caring and judgment fills the rows. The cushions are still, uncomfortable, and bears no imprint save the sweat, tears, and saliva soak deep into the cotton. It leaves a musky smell in the air. The Earth bears a haze around its largest cities filled with dirt. The baskets behind them are small. They so small that two similar sized books don’t fit them. Lessons from those books are passed down from generation to generation. The faces change, the world changes, but the words stay the same.

Your words are confining, but I love it. It’s an abusive relationship, but I can't find help. You are home to me in this world, but you are so far removed from it. Your patron of sanctity terrifies me. He is a slew of contradictions and it confuses me. Your praise is beautiful and exciting. I see myself in it in way other people can't. You control me, but aren't able to do so for yourself. You wish me to obey, and not think for myself. You would have me assimilate and carry on your bidding. You would like me to be a cut and paste of others, but not the others of the world. Is this how it was meant to be? Looking up at the ceiling, expecting to find salvation, but only finds dull, tired lights hanging from the white plaster by a string.