On the white pillar of the auditorium, there is a dove feather.
There is a protruding stone.
Touching the stained glass windows, sculptures, domes.
Touching the scriptures, candlelight, and many voices.
If the garden cannot plant my youth, it must be guilty.
The bench I passed by sat on confession, from the nameless spire,
white, black, the same color as a piece of silk.
If the garden forgets the melancholy of the cemetery, it must be guilty.
When the next group of prayer pants walks by the violet, new scriptures will sound.
Give the redemption of sincerity to the dove that once rested on the pillar.
About the Creator
Brian Wong
Hello, I'm Brian Wong , a 29-year-old aspiring writer dedicated to weaving captivating stories that resonate with the depths of human experience.
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Comments (3)
"If the garden forgets the melancholy of the cemetery, it must be guilty." I especially loved that line. Such a beautifully written poem!
I loved that you weaved a complete lesson around a dove's feather.
Your writing was so philosophical.