Shut up, put your mask on, walk into the temple that houses a desecrated corpse
But I, the narrator, notice carnations blooming at the doors
The enchanting fragrance overwhelms my senses
“It doesn’t make sense” I say, as the flowers emerge from the crevices

Its a spicy metallic smell when mixed with the pools of dried blood at the altar
“this is my temple and I am its unholy sacrifice” the patient says
“But the flowers breached the boundary and split the marble”
“the woman in the wind carries words that this torture may not be forever”
“drops of ichor stain the altar and now even death smells of her”

The body smiles as the words float in the air, breaking the silence|
I look around, check my surroundings and he’s right, you can feel her presence
Years of abuse are painted on the walls in drawings of pain
But to pray and drink so the promises don’t go in vain

And if the apostles blood was wine, would you drink it?
Would you quench your thirst and savor the taste
Like acres of land, through fields of dirt and sand, would it spread?
To every line, to every strand, through stories written in your hand, would you remind him he’s not dead?

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Authors note: I hope you enjoyed the altar (original), this is a bit of a longer form of writing - lmk if you guys prefer it this way in the comments

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