Take me to church where light has pierced the stained glass windows, painting the people inside with watercolors.
Old ladies wrapped in lace and children in their Sunday's best stay still as the light dances around them.
Such silent lips. Such echoing spirits. They clasp their hands and bow their heads, but inside, they were chasing the wind.
Their church is made of stained glass facades that radiate light onto these hallowed halls.
But my Church is made of stained glass hearts that glow with a fragile spark.