Black Sunday by Richard Schnap

I hear the toll of a broken bell
That calls the few that still have faith
Rising in the bloody dawn
From borrowed dreams they do not own

They walk the tilted streets toward
The temples bruised by heartless winds
Where painted saints stare mutely down
Like soldiers maimed in forgotten wars

And then the congregation bows
To speak the words of private prayers
Held within their minds so long
They struggle to remember them

But the candle on the altar high
Still flickers to defeat their gloom
Reflected in their beaten eyes
Like a beacon that has yet to die






Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.