Nothing quite like the writers’ church

More or less filled

Creaking of seats.

Anticipation tingling in the chest

Eyes down in respect.



It’s the start.

Glee burning in the veins

Eagerness to hear them speak.



The moaning gospels

Groaning from the stomach

Bent double in prayer and supplication.

Finger snaps of approvals

The wailing - the wailing of poets.

Lowing like cattle.

Mournful.

Rising pitch to screams.

Screams of agony, of love, tearing apart

the cacophony in their heads.