Sometimes you have to trust in tradition

Believe in patterns of blood-red rose petals

crisscrossing cold slate tiles

in hallowed halls

 

There, images in stained glass windows sparkle

and whisper believe, believe

and while the words uttered from a cracked pulpit

by a man whose sermon cracks with utterances of misdeed

may not ring true to ears well worn by time and experience,

there’s comfort in familiar ritual

 

Short reflection and a willingness to blur the lines

find ways to bring comfort to even a nonbeliever

Gratitude is the dance that finds rhythm

in the magic of the unknown

 

photo: Pixnio

prompt: Writers Gonna Write/Pinterest