Beata Viscera

There is sunshine and light rain in the sacred chapel. You carefully sidle down worn cobblestone steps to avoid puddles and slick moss, descending into walls overgrown and roof above collapsed, dripping. God rays light wet church columns, and stone pools below them. You see blood dyeing the water. Stained, white feathers balance on the surface. There is a presence about you so holy it grips your soul; on a pedestal, center the dilapidated temple, a seraphim angel is dying. The heavy breaths that ruffle its feathers are ragged and choked with blood. Red soaks its ruined wings. It is so radiant and so vulnerable that you cannot help but stare. Within its shield of wings, an immense, bloodshot eye gazes at your chest.