drones.
They’re illuminated
by the stained glass,
like hope, shining a flashlight
into the pupils of corpses
in search of life.
They’re in search of sweet salvation,
blue and red rests in their wrinkles.
A crucifix around their heart,
rosary imprinted in their palms,
the Our Father, Nuestro Padre,
Notre Pere,
painted on their lips.
Beaten bodies slumped
on their knees.
Bracing for the law,
the fire and brimstone.
Hands folded so perfectly,
mouths moving so feverishly.
Begging for eternity,
some shaking, withered, hands
reaching into their wallets
paying for it.