Hope for them is all burned out like prayer candles after everyone leaves the church.
Sent up to God and soon forgotten.
They eventually fade in the same way the smoke does from a charred wick.
Thick and curling, pervasive even…to only dissipate as quickly as it rose.
Just a tiny flutter in the curtain.
A transient whisper in the silence.
Like the ripples in a calm pool they come and go almost unmoving to the taut surface.
Easily forgotten as the wrinkles smooth themselves out.
The pool will not change for more than an instant.
It will never remember that tiny ripple.
The memory of those who move the calm for a small moment is held only in the minds of those who notice.
It is written there, and only there, in stone.
It is a forgotten etching but thus it still exists.
It is etched there forever.
At least it has a humble home.