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Stained Sunday Morning, as a young girl, witnessing a mediumís psychic power, staring into stained glass, a carnival of melodic imprints. My mother tightly grips my hand, pews of single file coffins, Standing spiritually frozen, like Stations of the Cross, eternally fixed. I lean forward in my chair, while Sitting emotionless, transfixed, following organ-hymned pages, while I mechanically repeat them. Mother has the Fury horizon-eyed stare, that turns me from crucifixion to burning cross. The image of the cross burns into her eyes, seeing it as she stares at me. She makes me crumble with spiritual angst, the symmetry of her open hymnal pages, while I can feel almost cold with the closing of my eyes, like a mortuary or funeral home with bitter wind chills. Envisioning thorns pressed against my temples, draining red wine tears down my lips, she pushes me into the depths, winding around my face like vines, etching madness burns into my mind. Driven sunlight seeps through the windowpanes, caustic overtures become brittle, like telephone psychic voices, singing Hallelujah, while pulling phantasms from my head. My motherís whispered singing voice, her fallen angel depths drives nails into my hand, gripping me with devout force, clammy handed in the sweltering head of compression. Galileo danced about her forehead, A repetitive tap upon her knee with fingers, her own world with heaven made ghastly obscenities.
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