The Little Tin Chapel

A plane of ebony underneath, supporting its base and in a time lapse of growth, vines and leaves tarnished gold, wrap themselves around the shingled roof of the little tin chapel, squeezing, so that the body may cave into itself. Wanting this for a long time, the lancet window’s glassy stare rest across the bedroom at the dried flowers and along the walls, coffee stained post cards of Judy Garland and Shirley Temple turned grey in frozen time. The steeple was once used as a winder and when cranked, the prongs of a steel comb were plucked somewhere in the chapel’s belly and amazing grace would fill the alert bedroom. The steeple’s corpse stands decapitated next to its compacting structure , the music inside stagnant. A layer of dust gathers onto the steeple’s window sills and floats in the air across the light like Christmas snow. Wafting into the little tin chapel’s open mouth, is the aromatic cadence of the books, their pages yellow and pungent from the sun. The stories inside mocking the little tin chapel that they will live forever.

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