I saw the old church wood, plastered on the walls
Short Long Short — I heard my child’s voice singing again
Whilst those who knew whispered prayers
I listened, to the hissing and humming I would later recite
In the darkness to the monsters under my bed
How have I entered my child’s chapel in this unholy state?
I can still smell the varnished benches and
Feel the vacant embraces
Wide-eyed but too sinful to save
There I was and here I am,
Falling down the rabbit hole
Falling, falling, falling
Years of falling in the darkness with sirens
Singing songs of the ticking clock
But if in truth there is no end
And hell fire is the blackness in my head
I’ll hold up my halo and absolve me of my sins
I won’t practice church-bench whispers for the monsters by my bed
I’ll meet the Queen of hearts
And watch roses painting the sinners red.

 


 

Lynette Bothma